m 


C.RICH'DWHITTEMORE 
Rare  Books 

ASHLAND,    MASS. 


THE   PANIC, 


AS    SEEN    FROM    PARNASSUS; 


OTHER     POEMS, 


CHAMPION     BISSELL. 


STULTA  EOT  CLEMENTIA,  QUUM  TOT  UBIQUE 

VATIBUS  OCCURRAS,  PERITURJE  PARCERE  CHARTS. 

Juvenal. 


NEW    YORK: 
T.    J.    CROWEN,    No.    699    BROADWAY. 

MDCCCLX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  18€0,  by  T.  J.  CROWK.V,  in 
the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


Wvnkoop,  Hallenbecfc  A  Thomas, ) 
printers,  113  Fulton  St.,  N.  Y.     ) 


THESE   POEMS 

ARE   INSCRIBED  TO   MY   VALUED   FRIEND, 

JOHN   PRIESTLEY. 

C  .  B. 


M175558 


C  0  N  T  E  N  T  S 


THE  PANIC,  -  1 

"LOOK  OUT  UPON  THE  SUNLIT  WAVES,"  -       34 

THE  PAPER-MILL,      -  35 
EPIGRAMS  FROM  MARTIAL, 

ORION,          -  42 

II.  C.  IL,  -       45 

SIB  WALTER,  4C 
ANTI-ARCADIAN, 

MARGARITA  SPOLIATRIX,       -  52 

HARTFORD,  -       57 

XEW  ENGLAND  HOUSES,        -  68 
CHILDHOOD, 

COLLEGE,  cr> 

EPIGRAMS  FROM  MARTIAL,  _-       75 

THE  POET'S  PRAYER,  78 

THE  MILL- WHEEL,  -       80 
HINTS  FROM  THE  SIXTH  SATIRE, 

ADYICE,  -      IOC 

EPIGRAMS  FROM  MARTIAL,      -  107 

AROOSTOOK,        -  -      110 

AT  MANILLA,  HI 

OYID— PARIS  AD  HELEN  AM,       -  -      113 

HELENA  AD  PARIDEM,            -            -  133 


CONTENTS. 

PAOS 

LOVE'S  FINDING,             -  -      147 

TEDIUM  VHVE,  159 

To  A  DAY  IN  MARCH,    -  -      104 

LUCY,  1GO 

THE  STREAM  AT  THE  NORTH,     -  -      109 

GALLIA  CAPTA,  174 

EPIGRAMS  FROM  MARTIAL,  -      17(5 

SOPHIA,  177 

A  FINANCIAL  EXPERIENCE,  -      184 

CROSS  PURPOSES,       -  190 

ROSALIA,  -      191 

HELEN,  201 

SONNET,  -      204 

"  SWIFT  RUSHING  RIVER  OF  LIFE,"  205 

"  WHAT  LESSON  GRAVES  THOSE  HOARY  ROCKS  T  -      200 
FRAGMENTS  FROM  HORACE  : 

AD  LICINIUM,     -  -    207 

AD  FUSCUM,  209 

HOMER,   -  -     211 

MILTON,  212 

SlIAKSPEARE,          -  213 

OYRILLA,     ,  •  .                      -                        •?            -  210 


!»  O  E  M  S . 


THE   PAKIC, 

•*  $wb  turn 


A  RHYMED  LETTER  TO  A  COUNTRY  COUSIN. 

DEAR  Cousin  Walter,  in  your  pleasant  world 
Beside  the  Susquehanna's  azure  flow, 
Where  mountain  upon  mountain  rudely  hurled 
Casts  kindly  shadows  on  the  plains  below, 
What  care  to  you,  the  commerce-fevered  mart, 
The  schemes  of  trade  devised  by  human  art, 
The  ebbs  and  floods  of  wealth,  the  city's  haste, 
The  streams  of  gold  that  poison  all  who  taste, 
The  creditor's  demand,  the  law's  delay, 
The  rushing  crowds,  the  quick  and  eager  day, 
The  fitful  hopes,  and  chances  of  the  game, 
Where  merchants  gamble  for  success  or  shame — 
What  care  to  you  are  these  ?     Your  lot  is  cast 
Where  these,  like  idle  rumors,  hurry  past ; 


2  THE    PANIC. 

Content  to  share  the  gifts  that  Nature  yields, 
The  ruler  sole  of  wide  and  fruitful  fields. 

Happy  your  life.     For  all  not  thus  await 
The  peaceful  pleasures  of  the  rural  state. 
Necessity  hath  arms  no  tyrant  knows  : 
And  where  she  urges,  who  shall  hope  repose  ? 
She  drives  amid  the  fearful  ranks  of  men, 
And  scatters  them  with  pitiless  force  apart ; 
Nor  shall  they  dream  of  quietness  again, 
While  she  pursues  them  with  relentless  heart. 
Ah !  who  shall  say  in  Youth's  delighted  years, 
When  all  the  future  robed  in  white  appears : 
Here  will  I  fix  my  constant,  sure  abode, 
Nor  venture  on  the  steep,  laborious  road 
Where  men  the  Pilgrimage  to  Fortune  make, 
And  bleed  and  pant  for  her  deceitful  sake ! 
Too  empty  boast — the  destined  hour  shall  come, 
Her  haughty  summons  call  thee  swift  away — 
As  when  to  action  beats  the  soldier-drum, 
Let  none  dare  linger — death  awaits  delay ! 

But  let  me  not,  too  mournful,  pen  the  theme 
Which  you  shall  ponder  by  your  peaceful  stream  ; 


THE     PANIC.  3 

For  in  the  city's  fierce  and  anxious  strife, 
Some  rays  of  pleasure  still  illume  our  life : 
Though  custom-trammeled,  and  the  slaves  of  gain, 
Our  manners,  morals,  smirched  with  foreign  stain ; 
Though  cursed  with  rulers  vile  beyond  belief — 
The  sport  of  gambler,  mountebank,  and  thief — 
Justice  a  fugitive  and  Law  a  jest — 
He  least  regarded  who  is  called  the  best ; 
Though  Trade  precarious  mock  the  wisest  care, 
And  dissipate  our  bankrupt  toil  in  air  ; 
Though  noxious  vapors  fill  our  summer  sky, 
And  Europe's  plagues  instruct  us  how  to  die — 
Still  we  survive — some  comfort  still  extract 
From  boding  fancy  and  from  direful  fact. 

Erewhile  the  city  mad  with  plenty  grew, 
When  the  last  full  decade  was  fresh  and  new  ; 
When,  first  awakened  from  his  long  repose, 
The  giant  Commerce  shook  himself  and  rose. 
And  first  he  called  to  all  the  fruitful  land 
To  pour  its  harvests  on  th'  Atlantic  strand. 
For  this  he  stretched  the  iron  rail  afar, 
And  launched  for  this  the  swift  capacious  car  ; 


4  THE    PANIC. 

Taught  distant  Iowa  to  send  her  grain 
(That  else  unbought  had  wasted  on  the  plain) 
To  feed  the  famine  of  a  foreign  host, 
And  make  our  fruits  a  blessing  and  a  boast. 
Nor  was  the  stirring  summons  disobeyed  : 
Quick  to  the  sea  the  bounteous  burden  sped, 
And  ocean  groaned  beneath  the  countless  sail 
That  bore  abundance  with  the  western  gale. 

Why  should  I  speak  of  ships  whose  sudden  birth 
Surpassed  the  wonders  of  the  April  earth  ? 
Their  growth  beginning  with  a  summer's  sun — 
Launched  on  the  waters  ere  his  course  was  run  ! 
Complete  in  beauty  rose  the  shapely  hull, 
Tapering  the  bow,  the  waist  more  round  and  full  ; 
While  to  the  rear,  the  lines,  retreating  in, 
Recalled  the  magic  of  the  dolphin's  fin. 
The  masts,  far  reaching  to  the  upper  blue, 
Yet  straight  as  lance,  and  tough  as  Saxon  yew, 
Bore  spreading  acres  of  adventurous  sail, 
To  woo  the  zephyr  or  withstand  the  gale. 
These  miracles  romantic  names  adorn — 
Pride  of  the  Seas  ;  The  Wave  ;  The  Shining  Morn  ; 


THE    PANIC. 

The  Ocean-Tamer  ;  Monarch  of  the  Spray  ; 
Great  Neptune's  Chariot ;  Purple  Dawn  of  Day  ! 
Once  the  calm  Greek  in  marble  carved  the  line, 
And  wrought  perfection  in  an  Art  Divine  ; 
Once  rapt  Italians  drew  the  Master's  face, 
And  vested  painting  with  unearthly  grace  ; 
But  in  the  rush  of  this  our  wondrous  time, 
Our  ardor  made  Utility  sublime, 
And  fixed  the  aspirations  of  the  soul 
In  those  creations,  all  unknown  before, 
Which,  wafted  whereso'er  the  oceans  roll, 
Conveyed  our  genius  to  the  farthest  shore. 
The  generous  frenzy  who  shall  dare  lament — 
Haply  with  folly  and  with  rashness  blent  ? 
No ;  if  o'er  sordid  traffic  Fancy  fling 
Her  kindly  graces  with  expansive  wing  ; 
If  she  adorn  the  arts  that  thus  subserve 
The  needs  of  men,  she  ever  shall  deserve 
Our  grateful  homage,  and  the  praise  shall  find 
Of  all  who  truly,  justly,  love  mankind. 


While  thus  abroad  the  Land  her  harvest  flung, 
The  scales  of  Commerce  even-balanced  hung ; 


6  THE    PANIC. 

And  justly  with  profusion  then  we  drew 
The  wealth  of  Europe,  and  her  luxuries  too. 
Proud  is  the  sceptre  of  a  virgin  state 
That  feeds  the  nations  at  her  bounteous  gate, 
Deigns  to  accept  the  rich  exchange  they  bring, 
As  queens  receive  a  subject's  offering; 
Smiles  on  the  busy  arts  her  plenty  cheers, 
And  reads  bright  omens  in  the  coming  years. 

Exhaustless  seemed  the  store  at  our  command, 
Though  scattered  freely  with  a  tireless  hand. 
The  wondrous  staple  of  the  Southern  clime, 
Material  ruler  of  our  race  and  time, 
Whose  ebb  and  flow  of  value  through  the  wrorld 
Are  more  significant  and  vast  to  men, 
Than  if  Napoleon's  throne  be  downward  hurled, 
Or  Hapsburgh  tumble,  ne'er  to  rise  again ; 
The  golden  berry  of  the  prairied  West, 
Favorite  of  earth  and  fruit  of  double  years, 
The  topaz-gem  that  shines  on  Ceres'  breast, 
When  flushed  with  early  autumn  she  appears : 
These,  with  a  lesser  host,  but  equal  sum — 
From  piny  forests,  aromatic  gum ; 


THE    PANIC.  7 

The  offspring  white  of  Carolina's  fen ; 

The  dark-hued  weed,  whose  cloud-compelling  power 

Enslaves,  and  cheers,  and  soothes,  and  conquers  men, 

And  charms  the  reveries  of  the  listless  hour : 

These  were  our  riches ;  these  the  busy  tide 

Of  commerce  wafted  outward  far  and  wide ; 

And  that  our  hands  might  ever  kindly  pour, 

Suppliant,  the  Nations  thronged  about  our  door. 

to 

Then  woke  the  people  to  a  higher  need, 
And  wants  began  to  stir,  till  then*  unknown. 
Why  lose  the  birthright — why  the  destined  meed 
Forego,  nor  claim  the  rights  that  were  our  own  ? 
To  us  belong  the  spoils  of  other  lands, 
And  what  is  fairest,  wrought  by  foreign  hands — 
The  silk,  the  purple,  linen,  fruit,  and  oil ; 
The  flowing  blood  of  red  Burgundy's  soil ; 
Robes  from  the  Orient,  spices  from  Kathay ; 
The  webs  that  cheat  the  burning  Indian  day ; 
The  sturdy  fabric  of  the  moorland  mill, 
The  sum  of  Flemish  craft  and  Saxon  skill : 
Nay,  all  that  centuries  of  weary  toil 
Have  slowly  ripened  on  a  foreign  soil, 


THE    PANIC. 

Here  to  our  dawning  land  shall  instant  throng, 
And  find  the  lords  to  whom  they  all  belong. 
Here  burns  the  Star  of  Empire  :  here  confessed 
Is  found  the  King  shall  rule  o'er  all  the  rest. 

Such  was  the  general  sense  ;  the  private  soul 
Felt  the  same  passion  that  inspired  the  whole  ; 
A  thirst  for  wealth,  that  quickly,  madly  grew, 
But  not  for  industry  and  temperance  too. 
As  truants,  when  some  golden  fruit  they  see, 
Forget  the  owner's  toil  that  raised  the  tree, 
Crave  the  fair  treasure,  leap  the  garden- wall, 
And  brave  the  trap,  the  ditch,  the  watch-dog's  call ; 
So  we,  in  haste  to  grasp  the  glittering  prize 
That  danced  on  high  before  our  eager  eyes, 
Leaped  every  bound ;  although,  for  virtue's  sake, 
We  spared — whate'er  we  had  no  power  to  take. 

Through  every  house  the  quick  contagion  spread : 
In  air  we  breathed  it — ate  it  with  our  bread. 
Old  things  were  past ;  the  new  before  us  lay, 
Warm  o'er  us  beamed  the  sun  of  Fortune's  day. 
Loosed  from  their  bounds,  outburst  our  fierce  desires, 
And  flamed  in  countless  and  in  lawless  fires ; 


THE     PANIC. 

And  scorning  toil,  but  luring  what  it  brought, 
From  others'  sweat,  our  own  repose  we  sought. 

Why  speak  of  schemes,  begot  with  every  sun, 
Whose  paths  were  many,  but  their  purpose  one  ? 
The  BANK,  whose  shares,  on  bright   crisp  paper 

wrote, 

Were  based  upon  the  PROMISSORY  NOTE — 
Sublimest  fiction  of  the  age  of  brass, 
Where  borrowers  organized  to  lend  each  other, 
And  safely  trusted  that  the  Public  Ass 
Would  prove  to  them  a  kindly  nursing  mother  ! 
Where  men,  scarce  competent  to  wTrite  their  name, 
Whose  only  talent  was  a  lack  of  shame, 
Filled  the  financial  presidential  chair, 
And,  each  a  bankrupt,  played  the  millionaire  ; 
Where  thieves  well  drilled  and  banded  into  hordes, 
Styled  by  the  public  prints,  DIRECTION  BOARDS, 
Met  twice  a  week  or  oftener,  and  divided 
The  funds  their  duped  depositors  provided  ; 
The  GRAND  STOCK  COMPANY,  for  each  design, 
Where  schemers,  swindlers,  rascals,  could  combine  : 


10  THE    PANIC. 

The  growth  of  tea  upon  tlye  coast  of  Maine, 
In  warm  Vermont  the  tropic  sorghum-cane ; 
The  manufacture,  by  a  process  rare, 
Of  ice  from  common  atmospheric  air — 
The  plan  is  still  extant — 'tis  not  pretense — 
The  only  trouble  is,  it  won't  condense  ; 
The  Company  for  warming  every  house, 
For  roasting  private  joints  or  parish  gruel, 
Humble  corned-beef,  aristocratic  grouse, 
Without  the  aid  of  gas,  or  stove,  or  fuel ; 
The  Building  Company,  a  wondrous  plan, 
For  fifty  cents  a  week  the  poorest  man 
Might,  by  its  certain,  magical  expansion, 
Become  the  owner  of  a  park  and  mansion ; 
But  ere  this  time,  too  short  for  me  to  say, 
The  treasurer  was  sure  to  run  away ! 
The  Grand  Association  for  returning 
Smoke  into  coal — Experimental  Burning 
Reduced  the  capital  so  very  low, 
At  last  there  wasn't  even  smoke  to  show : 
The  Great  Insurance  Scheme — a  novel  feature — 
Commends  itself  to  every  living  creature, 


THE     PANIC.  11 

Insures  your  house,  your  income,  or  your  life, 
Your  cashier's  books,  the  honor  of  your  wife, 
Insures  your  debts — nay,  for  a  round  commission 
Would  undertake  to  get  your  sins  remission. 

But  chief  of  all,  the  mammoth  RAILROAD  DODGE 
Absorbed  the  mind  of  Dives  and  of  Hodge  : 
Nor  was  the  scheme  unmixed  with  sober  sense — 
A  healthy  core,  o'ergrown  with  rank  pretense. 
Shall  I  revive  the  records  of  the  day 
That  frittered  credit,  fortune,  hopes,  away  ? 
Nay,  more — devoured  the  widow's  slender  purse, 
And  made  the  orphan  outcast — or  a  worse  ? 
Fain  would  I  hope  the  slow,  reluctant  muse 
Should  sing  some  feeble  strains  of  lasting  use ; 
Some  strains  that,  floating  past  the  present  hour, 
Shall  have  in  future  days  a  warning  power. 
But  who  shall  say  ?     The  lessons  of  the  time 
Though  fixed  in  annals — crystallized  in  rhyme — 
Like  stars  whose  distant,  faint,  and  glimmering  light 
Warms  not  the  sense,  although  it  reach  the  sight ; 
But  coldly,  feebly  touch  an  after-age, 
Whose  blood  is  warmer  than  the  printed  page. 


12  THE     PANIC. 

Nay,  if  the  felon's  shame  be  branded  in, 
His  children's  children  none  the  less  shall  sin  ! 
What  age  is  wiser  for  the  age  that's  past  ? 
The  newest  folly  still  repeats  the  last : 
And  though  no  wave  of  air  that  mortals  draw 
Has  not  borne  freight  of  Gospel  and  of  law 
Still  runs  the  world  its  sad  and  motley  round, 
And  sins  and  follies  none  the  less  abound ! 


Thus  we  explain  the  madness  that  possessed 
One  half  the  nation,  and  amazed  the  rest — 
That  threw  the  ponderous  chain  of  iron  road 
O'er  lonely  plains  where  man  had  scarcely  trod  ! 
As  if  the  long-drawn  lines  of  rusted  bar, 
The  jangling  rattle  of  the  empty  car, 
Had  magic  potence  to  produce  the  birth 
Of  full-grown  cities  from  the  lonely  earth; 
As  if  the  secret  of  the  wealth  of  states, 
Long  hid  from  mortal  eyes  by  envious  fates, 
Were  now  revealed,  as  if  by  sudden  shock, 
To  wondering  eyes,  in  form  of  Eailroad  Stock ! 


THE    PANIC.  13 

As  toward  the  rich,  inviting  spoils  of  Rome, 

The  fierce  Barbarian,  weary  of  his  home — 

Of  countless  marchings  on  the  frozen  plain  ; 

Of  chill  encampment  by  the  Baltic  main ; 

Of  Scythian  rigors,  boundless  glooms  of  pine, 

And  fruitless^fishing  in  the  icy  Rhine — 

Looked  out,and  longed, and  clanged  his  brazen  shield, 

And  called  his  comrades  to  th'  Italian  field : 

So,  if  the  ancient  story  do  not  shame 

The^base  ignoble  raid  I  blush  to  name, 

From  every  village,  every  petty  town, 

A  swarm  of  thieves  and  jobbers  hastened  down 

To  where  the  toil  of  twice  a  hundred  years 

In  evidence  of  golden  fruit  appears. 

"With  care  and  sweat,  six  broods  of  patient  men 

Had  made  a  garden  on  the  Eastern  main. 

Six  generations  slowly  fading  hence, 

Had  left  bequest  of  peaceful  competence. 

In  wise  contentment  we  possessed  the  store 

Thus  heritaged,  nor  rashly  wished  it  more  ; 

Content  to  wait  on  Nature's  certain  laws, 

That  fasten  means  to  end — effect  to  cause  ; 


14  THE    PANIC. 

Sure,  if  we  labored,  that  her  warm  increase 
Would  blossom  forth  in  kindly  wealth  and  peace. 

What  lying  arts,  what  treachery  and  stealth, 

Were  then  employed  to  cheat  us  of  our  wealth  ! 

Uncounted  tales  of  distant  states  anol  lands, 

Whose  riches  vied  with  Sacramento's  sands  ; 

Of  cities  waiting  for  the  iron  track 

To  pour  their  plenty  in,  and  take  our  traffic  back. 

Such  cities  !     Let  the  time-worn  Eastern  coast, 

New  York  and  Boston,  and  such  other,  boast ; 

Reared  on  a  barren  and  a  hostile  soil, 

And  only  rich  by  prodigies  of  toil  : 

But  there,  within  deep-margined  plenty  set, 

Are  Keokuk,  Racine,  and  Joliet  : 

Kenosha,  Madison,  and  Battle  Creek — 

I  think  the  six  were  built  within  a  week  ! — 

Dubuque  and  Davenport,  and  classic  Cairo — 

The  last  was  lately  swallowed  by  the  high  ro- 

Mantic  waters  of  that  sparkling  stream, 

Whose  silver  waves  would  grace  a  poet's  dream — 

I  mean  the  Mississippi !  if  you  strain  it 

For  several  days,  some  stomachs  can  retain  it ! — 


THE    PANIC.  15 

And  last,  a  place  where  debtors  let  the  law  go, 
Nor  fear  their  Eastern  creditors — Chicago. 

"  These  proud  creations  of  our  Western  skill, 
With  rich  rewards  your  pockets  long  to  fill, 
On  these  conditions :  buy  our  railroad  stock ; 
Supply  each  lake-port  with  a  marble  dock ; 
Purchase  our  farms  and  fences,  right  of  way ; 
The  cord- wood  of  the  State  with  ready  pay, 
To  keep  the  engines  going ;  when,  quite  sick 
Of  credit,  Chop  declines  to  sell  on  tick, 
Then  take  our  bonds — a  very  easy  load — 
Not  more  than  twice  the  value  of  the  road ! 
And  then — we  own  it  seems  a  trifle  funny — 
We  want  to  borrow  certain  sums  of  mone'y 
Upon  the  income  that  the  roads  will  bring, 
When  once  we  fix  and  finish  up  the  thing. 
For  though — and  here  we  pledge  our  solemn  word — 
We're  richer  than  the  world  has  ever  heard. 
Still,  just  at  present,  owing  to  the  smash 
In  Western  lands,  we  are  quite  short  of  cash. 
But  as  the  roads  are  built,  the  lands  will  rise, 
And  then  'tis  plain  to  your  sagacious  eyes, 


16  THE    PANIC. 

Your  funds  will  safe  return  whence  they  were  sent, 
With  rich  increase  of  twenty-four  per  cent. 
Nor  think  that  we  nor  fear  nor  reverence  law — 
We  drink  in  virtue  with  the  breath  we  draw ! 
When  Western  debtors  fly,  and  can't  be  found, 
Or  Western  city  fails  to  pay  its  bond, 
Or  Western  Railroad  shirks  its  due  coupon — 
Where  is  the  road  that  ever  tried  it  on  ? — 
Then — not  till  then — what  we  require,  deny  us  ; 
For  our  expansive  country's  sake,  oh!  try  us !  " 

Says  Butler — not  exact  do  I  repeat — 
To  cheated  be,  is  merrier  than  to  cheat. 
Such  our  philosophy — with  pleased  grin, 
We  sucked  the  bait  of  Western  cheatery  in. 
From  our  strong  boxes  took  the  guardian  lock, 
And  changed  the  contents  into  railroad  stock. 
It  took  less  room — was  easier  to  hold — 
Was  "more  convertible,"  they  said,  "than  gold! " 
They  found  it  so  ;  but  this  is  to  be  said  of  it : 
The  faculty  quite  ceased  when  they  got  rid  of  it ; 
And  he  who  now  "  converts"  a  Western  bond, 
Possesses  powers  evangelists'  beyond  ! 


THE    PANIC.  17 

Alas  !  how  few  escaped  the  fatal  snare — 
The  Lawyer,  Parson,  Doctor,  all  were  there  ; 
The  Ploughman  sold  his  plough  and  bought  a  share! 
The  Merchant  sold  his  stock  of  goods  for  stock, 
Mynheer  his  farm ;  the  Yankee  sold  his  clock  ! 
The  Schoolma'am  from  the  Bank  her  savings  drew; 
The  shrewd  and  sly  Cashier  invested  too. 
I  merely  state  the  fact,  and  mean  it  kindly, 
The  whole  male  population  rushed  in  blindly ; 
The  women  followed — those  who  had  the  means, 
And  bonds  and  stocks  went  off  in  solid  reams  ! 

This  was  the  climax — as  the  years  went  by, 
We  slowly  woke  to  see  how  vast  the  lie  ; 
Yet  so  prodigious,  we  could  scarce  believe 
That  human  genius  could  so  far  deceive  ; 
And  when  the  Money  column  gravely  stated, 
That  "  Grabtown,  Iowa,  repudiated," 
The  kindly  holders  sent  a  letter  out, 
And  mildly  "  hoped  the  thing  would  come  about." 
Such  lenience  might  have  fused  a  rock — despite  it, 
All  Grabtown  published  that  "  they  meant  to  fight 
it; 


18  THE    PANIC. 

They  had  the  best  of  counsel — they  would  see 

If  Eastern  capital  could  chain  the  free  !" 

Nor  they  alone,  for  over  all  the  land 

Repudiation  raised  its  dirty  hand  ! 

It  sickens  one  of  man  and  human  nature, 

To  note  the  movements  of  this  filthy  creature  ; 

How,  though  abhorrent  to  the  single  breast, 

It  finds  among  a  crowd  a  ready  nest ; 

And  those  who  brag  of  honor,  with  each  other 

Loudly  conspire  a  righteous  claim  to  smother ! 

But  when  we  fully  knew  the  vile  deceit, 
And  men  grew  bold  to  call  a  cheat,  a  cheat, 
Then  o'er  the  land's  whole  breadth  arose  the  sense 
Of  present  poverty  and  impotence. 
How  much  we  owed  abroad,  that  larger  grew 
With  every  cargo  to  our  ports  that  flew ! 
Our  ships  were  idle  ;  prospering  sun  and  rain 
Had  filled  all  Europe  with  abundant  grain. 
Back  to  the  towns,  the  wasted  farms  returned 
Hosts  of  gaunt  laborers — Man  by  Nature  spurned  ! 
Sublimest  satire  on  our  social  state, 
When  fields  their  natural  lord  repudiate, 


THE     PANIC.  19 

With  fatal  justice  full  revenges  take, 

And  by  him  paupered,  him  a  pauper  make  ! 

Nor  this  alone,  for  every  honest  trade 
Felt  the  vast  burden  that  our  debts  had  made, 
And — 'tis  the  olden  tale,  and  sad  as  brief — 
First  flew  to  Shylock  to  obtain  relief. 
Scarce  will  you  credit  the  usurious  tale — 
Should  fancy  falter,  figures  never  fail — 
From  off  the  face  of  every  fair  exchange, 
From  ten  to  twenty  let  the  discount  range  ; 
Then  double  this,  wherever  pressing  need 
Or  scanty  time  compelled  the  instant  deed ; 
Yet  shall  you  safely  keep  within  the  rate 
That  bore  on  labor  with  such  crushing  weight ! 

Nor  long  could  this  exhausting  aid  endure — 

To  such  relief  the  end  is  always  sure ; 

Through  the  wide  country,  through  the  pent-up 

town, 

Headlong  the  smaller  traders  toppled  down : 
Each  shrinking  wretch  who  thus  received  his  fate, 
Involved  another,  haply  twice  as  great ; 


20  THE    PANIC. 

Nor  by  his  debts  alone — a  general  fear 
Each  one  of  others,  shook  the  business  sphere, 
Disturbed  its  elements,  and  scattered  thence 
The  kindly  grounds  of  hope  and  confidence ; 
Filled  with  a  false  suspicion  every  breast, 
And  robbed  the  day  of  peace,  the  night  of  rest. 


So  passed  the  early  summer  of  the  year, 

When  August  came,  and  brought  the  PANIC  near. 

In  fear  of  some  unseen  impending  woe, 

A  vague  alarm  of  some  relentless  foe, 

Men  came  and  went,  till  on  one  gloomy  day 

The  cloud  that  hid  the  Evil,  broke  away. 

A  Mammoth  Company,  whose  business  spanned 

From  far  Ohio  to  th'  Atlantic  strand, 

Within  whose  yawning  coffers  had  been  poured 

Unnumbered  mites  by  helpless  widows  stored — 

The  clerk's  small  savings  and  the  merchant's  gains, 

The  rich  man's  titles  to  his  vast  domains — 

At  once,  and  utterly — forever — sank ; 

Its  notes  six  millions — nothing  in  the  Bank ! 


THE    PANIC.  21 

I  well  remember  how,  with  features  paled, 
The  feverish  multitudes  went  home  that  day, 
Their  thought — Since  that   Great   Company  has 

failed, 

All  hopes  are  vain,  let  ruin  have  its  way : 
Let  ruin  rule,  this  be  my  only  care, 
To  shun  the  evils  that  my  friends  must  share ; 
Be  still,  my  warm  emotions ;  let  me  steel 
My  heart,  that  else  the  kindly  throb  might  feel : 
A  struggling  swimmer,  shall  I  weakly  think 
To  share  my  spar  with  him  who  else  might  sink  ? 
Or,  scarcely  floating  in  my  frail  canoe — 
A  risk  to  one,  but  certain  death  to  two — 
Extend  the  oar  to  any  luckless  wight 
Who  faintly  battles  with  the  storm  and  night  ? 

Nor  did  the  grim  suspicion  fail  to  rise : 
Since  Honor  oft  in  time  of  trial  dies, 
Will  those  whom  I  have  known  and  counted  true — 
In  fair  and  prosperous  days,  alas !  how  few  ! — 
Stand  by  their  virtue  when  temptations  call, 
Be  firmly  honest,  though  the  heavens  fall  ? 
If  such  I  doubt,  they  doubt  the  same  of  me ; 
Is  doubt,  then,  shadow  of  Reality  ? 


22  THE    PANIC. 

As  when,  by  common  impulse,  famine-led, 
A  flock  of  pigeons,  flying  o'er  your  head, 
Hastes  to  the  nearest  wheat-field,  there  to  find 
Their  neighbor  flocks  in  rivalry  combined ; 
Then  if  they  seek  another,  lo !  the  air 
Is  black  with  hungry  pigeons  hurrying  there  ; 
And  soaring  upward  to  the  utmost  height, 
Still  see  no  vacant  spot  to  tempt  their  flight — 
So,  when  to  sore  financial  famine  brought, 
The  nearest  Bank  some  swarm  of  merchants  sought, 
They  found  the  parlor,  hall,  already  crammed, 
The  tired  Cashier  behind  his  table  jammed, 
The  ancient  President  in  close  blockade, 
And  warmest  siege  around  the  lobbies  laid ; 
Before,  a  crowd ;  behind,  a  long  procession  ; 
And  scarcely  room  to  force  a  retrogression. 
Then,  if  they  sought  a  Bank  in  distant  street, 
With  panting  breath  and  sorely  blistered  feet, 
Still  were  they  sure  a  frantic  crowd  to  meet ; 
Till  wearied  with  the  hot  and  useless  chase, 
Each  struggler  sought  his  own  accustomed  place — 
And  grim  Despair  was  there,  and  looked  him  in 
the  face ! 


THE    PANIC.  23 

But  could  each  one  have  saidjiis  eager  say, 
Of  what  avail  were  Banks  to  such  as  they  ? 
The  Earth  no  causeless  Panic  e'er  did  breed, 
And  debts  are  plants  that  always  spring  from  seed ! 
To  aid  the  fair  exchange  of  man  with  man 
By  bridging  Time — the  true  financial  plan  : 
But  not  to  bolster  up  a  sinking  cause  ; 
Not  to  assist  in  spurning  prudent  laws  ; 
Not  to  find  capital  for  reckless  men, 
Their  only  stock  in  hand,  th'  indorsing  pen, 
Who  waste  each  night  the  winnings  of  the  day, 
And  leave  their  creditors  their  debts  to  pay ; 
Nor  yet  to  prop  the  dubious  enterprise — 
Though  haply  chance  success  may  stamp  it  wise — 
Of  sanguine,  ardent  spirits,  rash  and  bold, 
Who  venture  freely,  nobly,  others'  gold ; 
If  lucky,  pay ;  if  broke,  with  heat  declaim 
Against  the  hapless  turn  of  Fortune's  stream, 
Just  at  the  very  moment  when  Success 
Was  hastening  on,  their  enterprise  to  bless ! 

Nay,  more — to  blame  the  Banks  for  our  distress 
Nor  helps  our  cause,  nor  makes  our  folly  less  : 


24  THE    PANIC. 

For  does  the  banker's  loan  create  a  claim 
That  he  shall  always  thence  renew  the  same  T 
Because  he  once  extends  a  kind  advance, 
Must  he  for  ever  feed  extravagance  ? 
And  if  it  come  to  this,  'tis  plainly  shown 
The  Banks  had  risked  their  safety  for  our  own. 
For  months,  the  Trader  to  the  Banker  flew : 
For  months,  the  loan  in  rapid  increase  grew  ; 
Nor  did  the  merchant  slacken  his  demand  : 
The  treasures  borrowed  from  the  Banker's  hand, 
But  fed  his  appetite  for  more,  and  still 
His  wants  appeared  more  vast — more  hard  to  fill. 

What  wonder,  then,  that  self-defense  compelled 
The  golden  stream  should  be  an  hour  withheld  ? 
I  grant  some  error — who  is  always  wise  ? 
The  skilled  physician  not  at  once  denies 
To  him  who  writhes  in  fierce  delirium's  pain, 
The  poisonous  draught  that  nursed  it  in  his  brain  ; 
But  slowly,  surely,  safely,  leads  him  back, 
Retracing  up  the  scorched  and  lurid  track. 
Here  was  the  path  of  wisdom  ;  well,  had  they, 
The  Banks,  but  read  the  lesson  of  the  day ; 


THE    PANIC.  25 

Then  milder  were  the  punishment  of  all, 
And  Fortune's  blessings  easier  to  recall. 

Oh  !  who  can  e'er  forget  the  long-drawn  ranks 
That  'sieged  the  discount  counters  of  the  Banks  ? 
In  single  file  the  gloomy  squadron  stood, 
Like  famine-wasted  men  scarce  hoping  food ! 
They  stretched  across  the  room,  they  doubled  in  ; 
They  turned  and  came,  and  went  and  came  again  ; 
They  ran  beyond  the  doors  ;  the  noonday  heat 
Beheld  them  standing  in  the  glaring  street ; 
And  still  the  sad  procession  longer  grew, 
Till  where  it  ended,  no  one  cared  or  knew. 


Hope  more  forlorn  has  never  stormed  a  wall, 
Where  one  dread  ruin  lies  in  store  for  all ! 
The  books  were  scarcely  opened :  "  Nothing  done," 
Why  need  be  said  to  all,  when  said  to  one  ? 
But  still  each  hopeless  wretch  a  duty  thought, 
That  his  last  offering  should  at  least  be  brought ; 
Then  if  he  failed,  of  him  should  not  be  said, 

"  Without  a  struggle  has  he  joined  the  dead  !" 
2 


26  THE    PANIC. 

Then  sank  the  merchant  princes — every  day 
Some  old  and  giant  house  forebore  to  pay. 
The  lesser  stars  that  dropped  from  out  the  sky, 
No  one  remarked  them — they  of  course  must  die  ; 
But  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  fall 
Of  luminaries  that  had  dazed  us  all : 
Still  one  by  one  they  tumbled,  till  the  bare 
Expanse  of  space  but  showed  us  where  they  were .' 

As  in  some  direful  siege,  the  gossip's  talk, 

The  casual  meeting,  and  the  stealthy  walk, 

All  insufficient  prove  to  tell  the  world 

How  many  victims  into  death  are  hurled  ; 

Then  day  by  day  the  sad  funereal  list 

Reveals  the  killed,  the  wounded,  and  the  missed: 

So,  'mid  the  slaughter  of  the  Panic,  we 

Received  the  black  list  of  necrology. 

Weekly  'twas  published,  constant  there  we  read 

The  once-familiar  titles  of  the  dead  ; 

There  every  Thursday,  going  home  to  dine, 

We  spelled  the  captions  bristling  down  the  line  ; 

And — were  the  prophets  to  the  earth  recalled? — 

The  dread  intelligence  was  oft  forestalled : 


THE    PANIC.  27 

Oft  was  the  cheek  of  shrinking  merchant  paled 
To  read  that  he  was  numbered  with  the  failed, 
When,  with  his  ensign  flying  at  the  peak, 
He  yet  had  steam  to  ride  the  waves  a  week ! 

But  news  is  news,  no  matter  what  the  theme, 

And  men  will  drink,  though  turbid  be  the  stream : 

This  wretched  catalogue  a  luxury  grew 

And  those  who  sought  and  read  it  not,  were  few. 

And  as,  upon  the  Fourth  of  each  July, 

The  schoolboy  throws  his  books  and  satchel  by, 

Cheers  his  great  grandsires  whom  he  never  saw, 

And  fires  the  cracker,  and  rebounds  the  taw ; 

So  we  observed — but  in  a  dismal  way — 

The  coming  in  of  " Independent's "  day! 

But  as  the  deadly  catalogue  increased, 

And  confidence  and  credit  waned  and  ceased ; 

As  stocks  went  down  and  down,  and  out  of  sight, 

Engulfed  in  ruin  and  in  hopeless  night ; 

As  men  who  lately  ruled  the  world's  exchange, 

And  taught  the  markets  of  the  continent 

The  proper  measure  of  their  daily  range, 

Faint-hearted  grew,  and  feared  each  day's  event ; 


28  THE    PANIC. 

The  public  wavered  in  the  faith  it  kept 
In  Wall-street  vaults  in  which  their  treasures  slept ; 
And  as  upon  some  lowering  day  in  spring, 
From  out  the  clouds,  the  northern  tempests  fling 
Sudden  destruction  o'er  the  shivering  plain, 
And  rend  the  blossom,  crush  the  tender  grain ; 
So  sudden,  sharp,  and  deadly  was  the  blast 
Of  public  anger  that  arose  at  last 
Against  the  Banks ;  and  scarce  a  private  soul 
But  nursed  some  secret  grudge  against  the  whole. 
Here  one  had  humbly,  in  some  hour  of  need — 
Compelled  against  his  pride  for  aid  to  plead — 
Pleaded,  and  vainly ;  and  his  wounded  breast 
Now  hailed  revenge,  and  taught  it  to  the  rest. 
Here  one  had  suffered  a  dishonored  name ; 
Long  had  he  struggled  to  avert  the  shame — 
Another  month,  a  week,  perhaps  a  day, 
Would  bring  him  aid:  will  not  the  Bank  delay? 
The  hope,  how  idle !     Fortune  now  the  case 
Had  changed ;  and  now  he  wore  another  face : 
His  time  had  come  to  claim,  and  loudly  too ; 
And  as  he  once  had  sued,  now  they  should  sue. 


THE     PANIC.  29 

Here  one  had  felt  a  real  or  fancied  slight ; 

Here  one  had  vainly  tried  the  adventurous  kite ; 

Here  one  who  used  the  Bank,  as  thieves  the  "  fence," 

Convenient  cloak  to  screen  his  own  pretense — 

At  last  detected  in  his  dirty  snares, 

And — fit  chastisement — hustled  down  the  stairs, 

He  had  his  grievance  too,  harangued  the  crowd, 

His  virtue  vehement,  his  language  loud; 

And  still  he  talked,  and  still  they  cheered,  and  higher 

Flashed  up  the  folly-fed  and  angry  fire. 

But  why  recount  the  sources  of  the  flame 

That  burned  within  the  breasts  of  all  who  came 

To  storm  the  treasures  which  themselves  had  stored, 

And  risk  the  safety  of  the  common  hoard  ? 

Whatever  wisdom  lodges  with  a  mob 

Who  haply  meet,  to  burn,  to  sack,  to  rob, 

Be  sure  was  there,  and  there  you  too  might  find 

Of  what  a  city  rabble  is  combined  ; 

Nor  wholly  rabble,  for  the  fierce  event 

Had  brought  the  city  out  by  one  consent ; 

The  swart  mechanic,  and  the  well-dressed  clerk, 

The  unknown  laborer,  and  the  man  of  mark  ; 


30  THE     PANIC. 

The  rich  retired  merchant,  anxious  he 

As  aught  the  poorest  wretch,  his  gold  to  see  ; 

The  lawyer,  broker,  active  man  of  trade. 

But  chief  the  vast  and  seething  crowd  was  made 

Of  that  great  restless  mass  of  human  souls — 

Vulgus  ignobile — a  swarm  of  moles — 

Each  known  by  some  one — sister,  wife,  or  mother ; 

But  met  in  crowds — and  no  man  knows  another ! 


The  first  day's  work  was  tasteful,  neat,  and  light — 
Three  banks  they  smashed — then  parted  for  the 

night. 

This  put  them  well  in  training — was  the  wine 
That  boxers  take,  an  hour  before  they  dine. 
But  when  arose  the  red  October's  sun 
Of  the  next  morning,  work  was  fresh  begun. 
Each  panting,  eager  warrior  broke  his  fast, 
As  if  that  day's  first  meal  might  prove  the  last, 
And  donned  his  warlike  beaver,  and  went  down 
To  wThere  the  sacred  spires  o'er  Wall  street  frown, 
Prepared  with  check  and  note  for  conflict  dire — 
Thus  flamed  within  each  breast  a  common  fire ! 


THE    PANIC.  31 

Within,  uneasy  tellers  counted  o'er 

The  wasted  remnants  of  their  golden  store, 

And  tried — but  vainly  tried — to  make  them  more. 

The  food  of  war  is  ammunition,  here, 

As  where  Bellona  shakes  her  gory  spear. 

But  though  they  wadding  had,  enough  for  all, 

Their  stock  of  metal  was  but  wondrous  small ; 

Their  specious  promises  were  far  from  being 

The  specie  that  the  crowd  was  bent  on  seeing ; 

And  though  their  charges  often  had  been  large, 

How  did  they  falter  when  they  met  the  charge ! 

Fast  pressed  the  multitude,  the  Teller's  hands 
Pay  out  and  pay,  but  still  the  crowd  demands : 
I  mean  the  Paying  Teller,  for  the  other 
Experienced  not  the  least  degree  of  bother ; 
Calm  at  his  bench  he  sat — the  gay  deceiver, 
Who  naught  received,  yet  styled  himself  Keceiver, 
And  read  the  morning's  news — and   chaffed  the 

rabble, 

And  laughed  at  all  their  senseless,  noisy  babble, 
Alone,  of  all  unmoved.     The  pale  Cashier 
Moved  up  and  down  the  Bank  in  ceaseless  fear ; 


32  THE    PANIC. 

The  President,  within  his  private  room, 
Refused  access,  and  gave  himself  to  gloom ; 
And  one  raised  blood,  and  one  was  carried  home ! 
But  still  the  surging  crowd  went  in  and  out, 
While  from  the  streets  arose  an  endless  shout. 

Unequal  contest — where  the  mob  combine 
To  break  the  image  or  destroy  the  shrine  ! 
The  title  of  the  god  be  what  it  may, 
The  public  will  is  sure  to  have  its  way. 
So  was  it  now  :  each  slowly  waning  hour, 
Bank  after  Bank  succumbed  to  lawless  power, 
Confessed  itself  a  bankrupt,  closed  the  gate ; 
And  quite  relieved  of  all  its  heavy  weight 
Of  care  and  coin,  consigned  itself  to  Fate. 
The  crowd  subsided  then ;  the  stroke  of  four 
Found  Wall  street  empty  as  the  lone  sea-shore, 
And  still ;  as  after  storm  subsides  the  watery  roar. 

As  often  tempests  clear  the  summer  air 
Of  plagues  and  death,  that  else  had  sheltered  there, 
So  this  fierce  outbreak  of  the  mob  dispersed 
The  brooding  evils  that  the  time  had  nursed. 
For  this,  no  praise — if  madness  foster  good, 
Still  be  the  true  connection  understood  ; 


THE    PANIC.  33 

For  reason,  patient,  following  down  the  path 
Where  public  folly  closed  in  public  wrath, 
The  folly  senseless — but  the  anger  more — 
Deduced  the  lessons  that  the  history  bore  ; 
The  lessons  old  as  man's  exchanging  art, 
Learned  through  all  time  by  every  prudent  heart, 
Garnered  in  Writ  by  Solomon  the  wise, 
Traced  through  the  ages  as  they  upward  rise, 
Nursed  by  the  liberal  mind,  they  blossom  thence 
In  Franklin's  maxims — Bacon's  lucid  sense. 

Two  years  have  gone  ;  the  PANIC  long  has  passed, 
And  we  forget  the  ills  that  cease  to  blast ; 
A  prospering  sun  returns,  and  we  at  length 
Feel  the  kind  symptoms  of  reviving  strength ; 
But  if  our  sinews,  not  as  yet  restored 
To  that  full  power  whose  loss  we  late  deplored, 
Too  early  tempt  the  lavish,  boundless  strain, 
Then  were  our  former  suffering  all  in  vain ; 
And  sharper  sorrows  shall  the  truth  recall, 
That  pride  o'erweening  ever  hastes  to  fall ; 
That  states  are  strongest  when  but  slowly  made, 

And  Justice  strikes  when  Nature's  disobeyed. 
2* 


34       LOOK   OUT   UPON   THE    SUNLIT   WAVES. 


LOOK  out  upon  the  sunlit  waves,  and  say 
That  they  will  smile  to-morrow,  as  to-day. 
Oh  !   no,  you  cannot.     Clouds  will  haply  rise, 
Or  rains  descend  from  out  the  changeful  skies  ; 
Or,  driving  shoreward  from  th'  Atlantic  deep, 
Chill,  sullen  mists  shall  o'er  the  waters  creep. 

Perhaps  to-day,  the  bloom  of  many  a  flower 
Is  at  its  gorgeous  full — its  final  hour  ; 
Perhaps  to-day,  the  sweetest,  fullest  song, 
That  e'er  charmed  echo  loved  to  bear  along, 
Is  for  the  last  time  sung  :  the  eager  dawn 
Wakes  but  to  find  the  song  and  minstrel  gone. 


THE    PAPER-MILL.  35 


THE  PAPER-MILL. 


THIS  is  the  paper-mill — you  heard 
The  humming  as  we  turned  the  ridge, 

Where,  lightly  lounging,  it  occurred 
To  you  to  draw  the  pretty  bridge 

We  after  crossed ;  and  crossing,  saw 
The  gay  kingfisher  bend  his  flight 

Beneath  the  arch — but  could  you  draw 
The  flashing  of  his  azure  light  ? 

Then  up  the  winding  race  we  stept  ; 

The  mill-dam's  roaring  nearer  grew, 
And  shook  the  lily  cups  that  kept 

Beneath  the  shade  the  last  night's  dew. 

Shall  we  go  in  ?     The  sun  is  high, 
And  noonday  glows  on  every  wave  ; 

The  trout  refuse  the  offered  fly, 

Whose  hues  seem  more  than  nature  gave. 


36  THE     PAPEE-MILL. 

We  enter — twenty  windows  here 

Light  up  a  room,  where  nimble  hands 

Of  busy  girls,  throughout  the  year, 
Cut  dusty  rags  to  cleaner  strands. 

Perpetual  task.     But  theirs  the  power 
To  draw  the  moral  of  the  day, 

If  haply  in  an  idle  hour 

Their  fancies  ever  look  that  way. 

For  here  and  every  day  is  seen 

How  Nelson's  sails,  Napoleon's  flags, 

The  monarch's  cloak,  the  robe  of  queens, 
All  come  at  last  to  dusty  rags. 

And  as  we  look,  the  opening  bale 
Keveals  the  treasures  of  the  bride, 

Who  haply  sailed  a  pleasure  sail, 
Upon  the  Adriatic  tide 

Ten  years  ago.     The  tattered  gown 
Of  some  rude  peasant  now  reposes 

Beside  the  nuptial  veil,  and  one 

Rough  sack  the  union  strange  incloses ! 


THE    PAPER-MILL.  37 

But  now  we  breathe  a  purer  air, 

Where  round  the  humming  engines  go, 

And  in  their  seething  bosoms  bear 
The  whitening  pulp,  revolving  slow. 

Pure  is  the  mass  we  lately  thought 
Was  past  beyond  all  human  aid ; 

The  city's  outcast,  hither  brought, 

How  clean,  and  white,  and  fair  'tis  made ! 

And  now  the  endless  sheet  begins 

Above  the  cylinders  to  roll, 
And  now  beneath ;  while,  busy,  spins 

The  spiral  knife  that  cuts  the  whole. 

And  so  it  is  in  human  life : 

We  seem  to  have  an  endless  flow 

Of  ups  and  downs — a  hidden  knife 
Is  always  turning  round  below ! 

And  if  our  race  be  short  or  long, 
The  end  is  sure  to  be  the  same  ; 

And  none  was  ever  known  so  strong, 

Could  turn  the  edge  when  round  it  came. 


38  THE    PAPEK-MILL. 

And  now  the  wagon  bears  away 
A  load  of  spotless  paper  sheets, 

To  where  the  Press,  by  night  and  day, 
Fills  the  town  air  with  measured  beats. 

What  varied  destiny  is  theirs — 

The  Poet's  song ;  the  Lawyer's  plea  ; 

The  Last  Komance  ;  the  World's  affairs 
That  yesternight  came  o'er  the  sea. 

But  look !     The  shadow  of  the  cone 
Glooms  eastward  from  Monadnoc  high, 

And  soon  the  captive  trout  shall  own 
That  we  have  deftly  wove  the  fly. 


EPIGRAMS    FROM    MARTIAL.  39 


EPIGRAMS  FROM  MARTIAL, 


EPITAPHIUM  PAEIDIS. 

TRAVELER,  pause.     This  Funeral-stone, 

From  the  road  you  gaze  upon, 

Pass  not  in  haste.     The  joys  of  Rome, 

Egypt's  Wit  and  Song  and  Pleasure, 

Grace  and  Art,  beneath  this  Dome 

Lie — a  lost  and  buried  treasure. 

No  more  the  theatre's  acclaim 

Shall  stir  his  heart,  locked  fast  in  Death's  chill 

keeping. 

The  Loves  and  Cupids  in  the  same 
Dark  tomb  with  Paris  are  forever  sleeping. 


AD  SEXTUM. 

You  say  you're  not  in  debt — and  'faith  that's  true  : 
They  only  owe,  whom  'tis  worth  while  to  sue. 


40  EPIGRAMS    FROM    MARTIAL, 

AD  SABIDIUM. 

SABIDIUS,  I  do  not  love  thee — 
Why  I  don't,  I  cannot  tell ; 
Only  this  I  know  quite  well, 
That  I  do  not,  cannot,  love  thee ! 


AD  PUELLAM. 


Now  coy,  now  bold,  now  full  of  fun, 
Buz,  buz,  you  fly  about  me  ; 
I  can't  live  with  you — but  I've  begun, 
And  now  I  can't  live  without  thee. 


AD  ^EMILIANUM. 


if  you  now  are  poor, 
You  always  will  be  so  ; 
For  only  to  the  rich,  from  Fortune's  door, 
Do  riches  flow. 


EPIGRAMS    FROM    MARTIAL.  41 

IN  VAEUM. 

VARUS  asked  me  once  to  dine — 
Splendid  glass  but  scanty  wine ; 
Tables  wrought  of  solid  gold ; 
One  small  joint,  and  that  was  cold — 
Every  thing  to  please  the  eye, 
And — to  keep  one's  palate  dry. 
Next  time,  Varus,  that  we  meet, 
Give  me  something  fit  to  eat, 
Or  I'll  excuse  you  from  the  treat. 


IN  PESSIMOS  CONJUGES. 

THIS  husband  and  wife  are  a  quarrelsome  pair, 
And  here  is  the  wonder  that  makes  one  stare  : 
Both  alike  as  any  twin  pea — 
Both  as  bad  as  bad  can  be — 
Isn't  it  strange  they  can't  better  agree  ? 


42  ORION. 


ORION. 


TO-NIGHT  supreme  Orion  rules  the  sphere, 

Lord  of  the  burning  Heavens  that  round  him  roll; 
A  giant,  resolute  and  void  of  fear, 

Spurning  the  Austral  pole, 

« 

He  strides  the  firm  equator  ;  'mid  the  march 
Of  errant,  fickle  suns,  he  shows  no  change, 

But  in  the  summit  of  th'  eternal  arch 
He  runs  his  constant  range. 

Around  the  Boreal  pole,  the  laggard  Wain 
Turns  its  slow  wheels  for  ever  to  the  sight, 

And  southern  stars  but  rise  to  hide  again 
Their  transitory  light. 

But  he,  the  king  of  suns,  divides  the  year, 
And  half  he  beams  upon  the  northern  world, 

And  half  upon  the  south ;  when  leaves  are  sere, 
In  Autumn  tempests  whirled, 


ORION.  43 

He  rises  still  and  stately  in  the  frost, 
That  follows  hard  upon  the  sinking  sun, 

And  hushes  all  the  gales  that  lately  tossed 
The  seas,  and  forests  brown. 

In  the  moist  fragrance  of  the  August  morn, 
When  all  the  senses  fail  with  summer  heat, 

Ere  yet  the  fever  of  the  day  is  born, 
He  strides  with  jeweled  feet 

Over  the  mountains  of  the  East,  and  cries : 
Have  courage,  O  ye  fainting  sons  of  men ! 

Soon  will  I  come,  and  then  the  summer  dies : 
Soon  will  I  come  again, 

And  bring  the  sparkle  of  the  Northern  snow, 
The  airs  that  stir  with  pleasure  every  vein ; 

When  late  October  winds  begin  to  blow, 
Then  will  I  come  again, 

And  fire  the  dark  of  swiftly  lengthening  nights, 
When  once  the  Hyades  have  spent  their  storm, 

With  belted  brilliancy  of  ruddy  lights  " 
Enwreathed  around  my  form. 


44  ORION. 

Me  close  shall  follow  the  untiring  Hound, 
His  head  the  brightest  jewel  of  the  sky  ; 

And  me,  his  lesser  mate,  with  tardy  bound, 
Shall  chase  unceasingly, 

Unseen  by  me.     My  steadfast  eyes  are  fixed 
On  the  great  Taurus.     I  a  deadly  blow 

With  glittering  club  eternally  present 

Against  his  shagged  brow.  « 

The  Lion's  tawny  skin  is  on  my  arm, 

My  sword  hangs  glistening  at  my  greaved  knee ; 
I  joy  in  war,  and  battle's  dread  alarm — 

No  power  can  vanquish  me. 


H.    C.    H.  45 


H.  C.  H. 


FKIEND,  guileless,  tender-hearted,  gone  before 
Through  Death's  drear  gates  :  I  mourn,  and  mourn 

thee  not. 

Life's  pains  and  sorrows  vex  thy  soul  no  niore- 
And  fair  thy  record  shows,  and  free  from  spot. 
Who  dies  as  thou,  is  happy  :  but  to  live 
So  purely,  merited  such  length  of  days 
As  the  kind  Heavens  oft  to  mortals  give, 
Who  ripen  in  their  children's  children's  praise. 


46  SIR    WALTEE. 


SIR  WALTER, 


THE  portrait  hangs  within  the  hall, 

Beyond  the  oaken  door, 
Upon  the  black  and  mouldy  wall, 

A  yard  above  the  floor. 

The  hall  is  damp,  and  chill,  and  drear, 

And  opens  to  the  ground  ; 
And  as  you  walk  therein,  you  hear 

A  dead  sepulchral  sound. 

In  former  times,  its  length  throughout 

Was  choked  with  dying  men, 
When  savage  Walter  led  the  rout, 

And  thundered  down  the  glen. 

Long  since.     For  now  the  moat's  slow  wave 

Smiles  to  the  noonday  sun, 
Nor  shows  the  corpses  of  the  brave 

Who  in  its  depths  were  thrown. 


SIR    WALTER.  47 

* 

By  night,  the  heavy  door  is  drawn, 

The  castle  stands  alone  ; 
But  in  the  chambers  till  the  dawn 

Unquiet  spirits  moan. 

By  day,  the  slanting  sunbeams  chase 

Each  other  through  the  hall ; 
But  ever  on  Sir  Walter's  face 

The  gloomy  shadows  fall. 


48  ANTI-ARCADIAN. 


ANTI-ARCADIAN, 


WHEN  Poet's  rhymes  begin  to  flag, 

And  Pegasus  grows  crusty  ; 
When  appetite  is  fiercely  keen, 

And  thought  is  strangely  rusty 
Kind  Providence  an  opening  leaves 

To  save  each  hungry  sinner, 
The  poet  sings  a  Country-Life, 

And,  singing,  earns  his  dinner. 


For  ever,  since  old  Horace  lived, 

And  framed]  the  vinous  ditty, 
Poets  of  every  age  and  stamp 

Have  joined  to  curse  the  city  : 
To  curse  its  noise,  its  dust,  its  streets, 

Its  artificial  gases, 
To  sigh  for  pure  Arcadian  joys, 

And  blooming  simple  lasses. 


ANTI-ARCADIAN.  49 

Such  are  the  rhymes  and  such  the  strains 

That  take  the  place  of  reason — 
But  as  the  oyster  of  July 

Is  slightly  out  of  season, 
So  to  my  humble  sense  seems  all 

The  brood  of  boundless  praises 
Of  shepherdesses,  swains,  and  maids, 

Of  grasses,  trees,  and  daisies. 

I  don't  deny  that  grass  is  green, 

That  brooks  are  clear  as  amber, 
That  ancient  ivies,  rich  as  old, 

O'er  mossy  oak-trees  clamber ; 
That  Beauty  meets  us  everywhere, 

In  Nature  lights — and  shading — 
In  gardens  flushed  with  wanton  Spring — 

In  Autumn's  foliage  fading. 

But  grass  and  brooks,  and  ivies  rich, 

Though  not  a  poet's  fiction — 
What  is  their  value  but  to  aid 

The  poet's  swelling  diction  ? 
3 


50  ANTI-ARCADIAN. 

The  veil  of  beauty  hanging  round 
Yon  distant  tranquil  cottage — 

The  inmates  find  it  little  worth 
To  make — or  season — pottage. 

Your  friend  who  loves  the  country  much, 

Has  bought  a  Far  Niente, 
And  asks  you  out,  in  August  heats, 

To  pass  ten  days  or  twenty. 
You  think  it  vastly  fine  to  see 

The  country  in  its  glory, 
And  so  you  pack  your  rod  and  gun, 

And  throw  aside  your  "  Story." 

Your  friend  is  very  kind,  his  spouse 

More  careful  than  a  mother ; 
They  put  you  in  a  feather-bed, 

And  leave  you  there  to  smother. 
The  window-sash  is  battened  down, 

The  chinks  are  stuffed  with  cotton  ; 
Their  care  has  left  no  single  mode 

Of  torture  unforgotten. 

You  dream  all  night  of  ^Etna's  fires, 
Of  fiendish  noises  ringing  ; 


ANTI-ARCADIAN.  51 

You  wake — around  your  hapless  face 

You  hear  mosquitoes  singing. 
You  stagger  to  the  looking-glass — 

Your  swollen  optics  show  you, 
That  even  in  your  father's  halls, 

Your  sisters  wouldn't  know  you, 

You  shoot  no  game — the  grounds  were  cleared 

Last  spring  by  poaching  sinners  ; 
The  trout  refuse  your  English  flies, 

The  pickerel  scorn  your  minnows  ; 
The  fair,  of  whom  so  much  was  said, 

Have  shocking  bad  complexions ; 
You  shudder  at  their  dentists'  bills — 

One  has  such  strange  reflections ! 

No  !  give  to  tillers  of  the  field 

Your  sympathizing  pity ; 
And  praise  the  country,  if  you  will, 

But  keep  within  the  city. 
Or  if  your  doctor  should  advise 

A  change  of  situation, 
Select  your  rural  residence 

Hard  by  a  railway  station. 


52  MAEGAKITA     SPOLIATEIX. 


MARGARITA   SPOLIATRIX. 


THESE  FLED  IN  1852,  AND  WERE  LOST  AT  SEA. 


WHY  cannot  I  forget 

That  I  have  known  you  ?     Loss  of  years 

Were  cheap  to  purchase  Lethe.     Now  with  tears 

To-night  my  eyes  are  wet, 

And  all  a  vain  and  fruitless  grief: 

I  hope  not— dare  not  hope — relief. 

To-night,  what  parts  us  ?    House  and  street ; 

Naught  else.     The  rapid  feet 

Of  the  chance  passer-by,  that  now  I  hear, 

Will  bear  him  by  your  door, 

Before  the  foot-fall  dies  from  off  my  ear : 

Yet  have  the  Heavens  declared  the  distance  more 

Than  seas  whereof  no  sailor  knows  the  shore. 

What  keeps  me  from  your  side,  you  know ; 
My  passion,  since  it  first  began  to  flow, 


MARGARITA     SPOLIATRIX.  53 

You  largely  have  divined.     No  glance,  no  sigh, 

Has  once  escaped  you.     And  you  knew  that  I 

Was  from  the  first 

Another's :  yet  you  nursed 

The  flame  your  presence  kindled ;  seemed  to  say, 

I  am  the  one  you  should  obey, 

And  false  is  every  other.     Life's  mistake 

You  have  committed  ;  but  you  yet  shall  break 

The  chains  that  now  your  passion  bind, 

And  happiness  with  me  shall  find. 

But  you  have  nothing  spoken — 

Your  mystic  silence  never  has  been  broken  ; 

And  pure  as  yet  before  the  world  we  stand, 

As  if  we  had  not  neared  the  fiery  strand 

Of  that  vexed  ocean,  where,  when  launched  our 

bark, 
We  sail  from  God's  clear  light  to  unknown  wastes 

of  Dark. 

Your  pitying  eyes  for  ever  on  me  bend, 
O  less  than  spoken  lover,  more  than  fiiend  ! 
And  if  I  read  them  right, 
As  now  my  fancy  calls  me  up  their  light, 


54  MARGARITA    SPOLIATRIX. 

They  say,  When  comes  the  bolder  hour, 

And  Love  asserts,  at  last,  its  power, 

Oh !  haste  at  once  to  me  ;  for  you  I  wait, 

For  you  I  watch,  O  monarch  of  my  fate ! 

As  I  of  yours.     0  noble  soul ! 

Well  have  you  shown  that  you  can  love  control. 

But  why  for  ever  waste  the  will  and  nerve 

On  that  dear  foe  ?     Rather  does  he  deserve 

That  now  you  yield  to  him,  and  prove 

The  mercy  and  the  sweet  rewards  of  Love. 

Ah !  silent,  pitying  eyes — they,  burn 

Through  all  my  sense.     They  turn 

Always  on  me  ;  and  through  them  all  your  being 

Mingles  with  mine,  as  if,  foreseeing 

The  end  of  all,  you  would  anticipate 

Our  destined  and  inseparable  fate. 

Often  I  try 

Your  charmed  sphere  to  fly : 

I  penetrate,  I  share,  the  most  of  all 

That  can  the  senses  or  the  mind  enthrall — 

Places  where  Pleasure  fills  its  fullest  cup, 

And  royally  persuades  to  drink  it  up. 


MARGARITA    SPOLIATRIX.  55 

But  on  the  waves  of  music  you  are  borne ; 

And  when  the  throbbing  waltzes  mourn, 

And  bear  me  circling  with  the  revel's  queen, 

Your  dearer  image  glides  between, 

And  takes  her  place.     The  flashing  wine 

That  lights  my  soul,  is  but  your  smile  divine : 

The  song  of  morning  bird 

Becomes  your  song  as  soon  as  heard : 

You  speak  to  me 

From  the  warm  lispings  of  the  summer  sea  : 

Ah !  true  » 

That  I  must  lose  myself,  ere  I  lose  you ! 

I  come  :  whatever  waits 

Of  Punishment  behind  the  hidden  gates 

Where  lurks  Hereafter — all 

I  risk,  and  follow  those  sweet  sounds  that  call 

To  where  you  are.     Oh  !  separated  far, 

From  me  if  creeds  and  law's  grim  duties  bar, 

For  you  I  all  despise — and  you  are  near — 

And  lo,  at  once  beside  you  I  appear, 

Nor  more  to  leave  you.    With  the  morn 

Shall  come  astonishment  and  scorn, 


56  MARGARITA    SPOLIATRIX. 

Reproach,  and  drawing  off  of  friends, 

The  murmurs  of  the  town, 

That  every  one  so  quickly  lends 

To  drag  his  neighbor  down. 

And  shall  we  care  for  these — can  shame 

Attack  us,  wrapped  in  Love's  bright  flame  ? 

Can  clamor  reach  us,  sailing  far  away 

Where  Nature  wantons  in  a  sunnier  day, 

And  brighter  stars  illume  a  softer  night  ? 

Not  thus  shall  us  affright 

Our  silly  fears.     Your  hand 

I  take  in  mine  :  at  Love's  command 

We  leave  the  world  behind  us.     Never  more 

Its  lawrs  shall  bear  on  us  as  once  they  bore ; 

For  liberty  we  barter  bonds.     The  change 

Hath  left  us  free  to  love  and  range. 

Who  shall  resist  when  Fate  and  Love  combine 

To  press  the  fragrant  wine, 

Which  now  we  drink  together — sinking  there 

Of  all  but  Love  the  consequence  and  care  ? 


HARTFORD.  57 


HARTFORD. 


No  fairer  city  in  your  dreams 

Than  ancient  Hartford  ;  well  you  know 
The  confluence  of  the  silver  streams, 

The  greater  and  the  lesser  flow. 
Southward  the  meadowed  Kivers  bend, 

Till  meads  and  streams  are  lost  to  view ; 
To  east  and  west  the  hills  extend 

Their  forest  glens  and  caps  of  blue. 
Up  the  long  street,  the  frequent  spire 

Fills  all  the  air  with  tapering  lines ; 
And  red  by  night,  the  factory  fire 

Broad  o'er  the  sleeping  country  shines. 


58  NEW      ENGLAND      HOUSES. 

NEW  ENGLAND   HOUSES. 


WHERE  winds  the  river  slow  away, 

And  lingers  long  at  every  bend, 
And  urban  gardens,  flushed  with  May, 

Begin  with  copse  and  farm  to  blend, 
A  House  appeared  of  goodly  size, 

And  modeled  on  an  ancient  plan, 
That  ARCHITECTUS  would  despise, 

Whose  creed  is,  Not  the  house  for  man, 
But  man  for  house ;  whence  crudely  grow 

Those  miracles  of  brick  and  stone, 
Wliich  you  and  I  have  cause  to  know, 

Though  richer  if  we  had  not  known. 
Before  the  House  the  meadows  swept, 

In  rich  unbroken  green  arrayed, 
Till  up  the  distant  hills  they  crept, 

And  vanished  in  the  forest  shade  ; 
And  sitting  in  the  Oriel  light 

When  first  the  morning  splendor  broke, 
Clear  drawn  and  large  upon  the  sight, 

Loomed  the  majestic  CHARTER  OAK. 


NEW       ENGLAND       HOUSES.  69 


II. 


Protected  by  a  sloping  ridge 

That  overlooks  the  ancient  town, 
And  where,  to  cross  the  five-arched  bridge, 

The  mail-coach  daily  thundered  down, 
You  saw  my  Father's  House.     A  lawn, 

Close  shaven,  lay  before  the  door  ; 
And  when  the  lattices  were  drawn, 

The  turfy  carpet  met  the  floor. 
Elm  trees  arose  on  either  side, 

The  nurslings  of  an  elder  day, 
Whose  leafy  arches,  high  and  wide, 

All  summer  kept  the  green  of  May. 
The  House  five-windowTed,  of  the  style 

Of  true  New  England  Houses,  wrhite, 
And  mounted  with  a  gable  pile 

That  earliest  caught  the  morning  light, 
When  o'er  the  hills  it  streamed,  and  I, 

Awakened  from  a  summer  sleep, 
Snuffed  the  late  roses  of  July, 

And  heard  the  brooding  sparrow  cheep. 


60  NEW      ENGLAND      HOUSES. 

And  rising  in  the  earliest  gray 

Of  morning,  when  the  house  was  still, 
Through  shaded  paths  I  took  my  way, 

To  darkling  pools  beneath  the  mill, 
Where  in  the  smoothly  flowing  tide, 

Unbroken  by  the  sleeping  wheel, 
I  watched  my  floats  and  angles  glide, 

And  filled  with  trout  my  wicker  creel. 


CHILDHOOD.  61 


CHILDHOOD, 


No  mother,  but  can  truly  say — 

And  mothers'  truth  surpasses  ours — 
That  Childhood  is  an  April  day, 

A  sunshine  dimmed  with  frequent  showers. 
But  as  we  say,  in  just  degree 

As  are  the  fortunes  of  the  Spring, 
So  will  the  flowers  of  Summer  be, 

And  so  its  fruits  will  Autumn  bring. 
Thus  in  our  youth  is  hid  the  seed 

Of  all  the  fruit  that  we  shall  bear  ; 
But  who  so  wise  that  he  can  read 

The  secret  of  the  Human  Year 

For  dim  and  buried  are  the  laws 
That  bind  what  is,  and  is  to  come  ; 

Though  nothing  comes  without  a  cause, 
Results  oft  wander  far  from  home. 


62  CHILDHOOD. 

Though  Boy  be  father  to  the  Man, 

The  Man  may  differ  from  the  Boy, 
As  widely  as  the  deepest  pain 

May  differ  from  the  highest  joy, 
And  yet  be  still  the  same.     The  cause 

Far-dated,  who  shall  hope  to  find  ? 
And  we,  unconscious  of  its  laws, 

Can  only  wonder,  mute  and  blind. 


Do  you  remember  all  the  crowd 

Of  schoolboys,  who  at  early  four 
Rushed  with  tumultuous  outcry,  loud 

And  eager,  through  the  open  door, 
That  seemed  the  portal  of  a  joy 

More  joyous  than  we  since  have  known  ? 
What  rapture  greater  to  a  boy, 

Than  freedom  when  his  task  is  done  ? 
Well — surely,  to  remember  all, 

Would  far  exceed  the  ancient  task  ; 
And  why  should  I  the  list  recall 

Which  neither  you  nor  readers  ask  ? 


CHILDHOOD.  63 

The  most  of  these  have  gone,  where  go 

The  shades  of  those  in  later  days, 
Whom  once  we  thought  it  well  to  know, 

But  having  known,  we  ceased  to  praise. 


We  were  a  rude  and  hearty  band, 

Of  recklessness  beyond  a  name  ; 
Yet  some  there  were,  would  distant  stand, 

And  our  confederacy  disclaim  : 
The  polished  gentlemen  of  ten, 

Who  scorned  a  marble  or  a  ball, 
Whose  characters  contracted  stain, 

If  e'er  they  stooped  to  play  at  all. 
These  were  the  beaux.     In  old  romance 

No  cavaliers  so  grand  as  these  ; 
No  Romeo  in  tights,  that  haunts 

The  Window  at  the  East,  could  please 
Or  flatter  with  that  skilled  address 

Which  these  unbearded  knights  displayed, 
Who  never  failed  of  full  success, 

No  matter  where  the  siege  was  laid. 


64  CHILDHOOD. 

Why  praise  the  rough  and  careless  youth, 

The  Boy,  uncurbed  and  unpolite  ? 
Because  in  him  th'  eternal  truth 

Of  Nature  stands  revealed  to  light. 
From  out  the  rough  and  clodded  earth, 

All  life  and  fruits  and  flowers  grow, 
A  contrast,  from  their  very  birth, 

To  the  dark  source  from  which  they  flow. 
A  perfect  manhood  is  a  flower, 

That  oft  from  gnarled  branches  shoots  ; 
Nor  does  the  splendor  lose  its  power, 

Because  'twas  drawn  from  earthy  roots. 
I  reverence  with  faith  sincere 

The  plan  of  Him  who  made  us  all ; 
Who  makes  the  Boy  devoid  of  fear, 

And  shapes  him  rough,  and  fierce  and  tall ; 
Implants  within  his  growing  frame 

A  heart  that  scorns  a  smooth  pretense, 
And  stirs  in  him  a  quenchless  flame, 

That  shines  through  all  his  active  sense. 

Unconscious  of  a  future  day, 
Of  all  the  cares  of  after-years, 


CHILDHOOD.  65 

He  revels  wide  and  large  in  play, 

And  careless  of  all  good  appears. 
Unconscious  of  his  high  desert, 

He  frets  at  every  curbing  rein ; 
No  order  he  would  not  subvert, 

No  penalty  he'd  not  disdain. 
But  such  make  manly  men.     The  flower 

That  blooms  too  soon,  or  falsely  blooms, 
Blooms  but  to  wither  in  an  hour, 

While  hardier  stocks  their  full  perfumes 
Keep  back  at  first,  until,  the  sun 

Of  Summer  kindling  into  glow 
Their  opening  petals,  one  by  one 

The  roses  in  perfection  blow. 


COLLEGE. 


COLLEGE. 


I  TROD  the  worn  Collegiate  Halls 

With  much  of  reverence  :  not  in  vain 
Does  Wisdom  write  upon  her  walls, 

Far  off,  ye  thoughtless  and  profane  ! 
For  here  as  in  the  armory 

Of  Palace  Beautiful,  the  sword 
And  shield  and  spear  are  welcome  free 

To  those  alone  who  love  the  word 
That  Wisdom  teaches.     Arms  like  these, 

Immortal  and  of  proof  thrice  tried, 
Let  him  not  rashly  hope  to  seize 

Who  wears  the  flimsy  clothes  of  pride. 
Here  dwells  the  air  of  studious  thought ; 

In  these  sequestered  shades  we  see 
How  from  the  Past  is  ever  brought 

The  hope  of  Immortality. 
Here,  in  the  present  moment,  we, 

Rejoicing  in  the  influence  cast 
About  our  living  destiny 

By  memories  of  souls  long  past, 


COLLEGE.  67 

In  the  same  breath  look  forward  to 

The  times  to  which  our  souls  shall  come, 

Borne  on  soft  gales  that  ever  blow 

From  where  the  dead  have  made  their  home. 


Examinations  passed,  the  grave 

Professors  reckoned  up  the  score, 
How  many  in  the  port  were  safe, 

How  many  wTecked  along  the  shore. 
"  From  dangers  of  the  wind  and  tide, 

Deliver  us,"  the  mariner  prays  ; 
Let  kindly  Fate  for  those  provide 

Who  venture  forth  for  college  bays. 
Ah !  village  mother,  racked  with  fear 

When  to  the  trial  her  Hopeful  goes, 
But  only  trembles  lest  her  dear 

May  not  unbosom  all  he  knows, 
Non  cuivis  homini — but  stay, 

You  don't  know  Latin — nor  did  he  : 
Such  was  the  sentence  of  the  day, 

In  which  we,  sorrowful,  must  agree. 


68  COLLEGE. 

I  love  the  student — love  the  years 

That  shape  the  boy  into  the  man ; 
To  me  it  more  and  more  appears, 

They  should  be  happy  as  they  can. 
And  when  I  rule  and  sway  the  State — 

Have  you  no  idle  dreams  like  this  ? — 
Each  youth,  and  maiden  too,  shall  wait 

Full  age,  before  their  spring-like  bliss 
Is  broken  by  the  weight  of  care, 

We  all  must  carry :  if  delayed, 
Our  manhood's  back  is  strong  to  bear 

The  burden:  earlier,  overweighed. 
And  therefore  I  the  more  condole 

With  those  whom  Labor  early  finds, 
And  trampling  on  the  tender  soul, 

In  harsh  compulsory  fetters  binds. 
Respect  them,  you  who  are  the  more, 

And  higher,  favored :  and  if  they 
To  your  pre-eminence  after  soar, 

Cast  academic  pride  away, 
And  welcome  them.     The  honest  guild 

Is  always  friendly ;  and  the  claims 
That  on  a  badge  or  ribbon  build, 

Are  at  the  best  but  glittering  shames. 


COLLEGE.  69 

0  Friend !  who,  eddying  here  and  there, 

Still  love  o'er  olden  days  to  dream, 
And  now  far  off  are  listening,  where 

Rolls  Sacramento's  golden  stream ; 
What  days  were  ours,  when,  classic-full — 

With  mathematics  saturate — 
For  the  nonce  we  voted  Plato  dull, 

And  Parallelopipedons  vowed  to  hate ! 
Sad  disrespect !     But  who  shall  blame 

Those  hours  passed  in  rosy  mirth  ? 
Unless — the  Gods  avert  the  same — 

Those  musty  Greeks  return  to  earth. 


Where  now  is  dear  old  Tutor  Blank, 

Who,  stunned  by  our  Round-Table  glees, 
Would  creep  to  the  door,  and  softly,  "  Thank 

You  Gentlemen  all,  and — milder,  please." 
Then  down  the  stairs  again,  good  soul, 

Obliged  to  vindicate  the  laws, 
Yet  knowing  that  his  mild  control 

Was  hailed  through  College  with  applause ; 


70  COLLEGE. 

While  those  who  envied  us  our  mirth, 
And   harried  all  our  nights,  were  coaled, 

Q-unpowdered  to  the  very  hearth, 
And  waked  by  bells  untimely  tolled. 


As  for  the  suppers — not  to  swerve 

From  truth  in  any  just  degree, 
I  cannot  say  that  they  deserve 

That  they  should  much  be  praised  by  me 
At  raw  sixteen,  or  ere  of  age, 

The   gust,  insatiable  and   crude, 
Incites  the   palate   to  engage 

With  things  unknown  to  Monsieur  Ude. 
At  best,  the  Science  scarcely  known 

On  this  our  hemisphere  as  yet, 
Was  but  to  scant  proportions  grown 

Among  the  folk  of  Quodlibet. 
And  if  with  these  so  slender,  worse 

With  the  Publicans — who  ever  are 
With  sinners  coupled,  as  of  course 

Including  these,  and  much  to  spare. 


COLLEGE.  71 

The  wise  arch  enemy  of  youth, 

Attacking  them  in  every  part, 
Assaults — there's  no  profounder  truth — 

The  stomach,  equally  with  the  heart. 
For  with  a  diabolic  sleight,     ' 

Persuading  them  that  youthful  sense 
And  flush  of  youthful  appetite 

Are  of  enduring   permanence, 
They  rush  to  strange  repasts,  combine 

All  elements  of  peptic  woe, 
Dilute  with  fearful  brands  of  wine, 

The  child  of  vitriol  and  sloe. 
Hence  comes  with  sure  and  swiftest  pace, 

A  fiend,  the  progeny  of  Hell, 
And  he,  who  once  has  seen  his  face, 

Needs  not  that  I  his  name  should  tell. 
Dyspepsia  call  him,  that  the  few 

Who  live  remote  from  earthly  cooks, 
May  share  that  faint  innoxious  view 

One  gets  of  vicious  things  in  books. 
Once  seized  by  those  remorseless  hands, 

All  struggles  are  but  fruitless  pain ; 
He  grasps  securely,  and  the  bands 

He  twists  are  proof  to  mental  strain. 


72  COLLEGE. 

"What  hope  remains  to  stir  the  soul, 
Mocked  by  this  devil  foul  and  mean, 

Who  o'er  the  mansion  holds  control, 
And  lets  no  peace  or  sunshine  in  ? 


O  Friend  !    who  in  a  sunnier  land, 

But  not  on  sunnier  duties  bent, 
By  sealed  Executive  command, 

Doth  judge  a  Georgia  settlement, 
And  skilled  in  Blackstone  and  the  Law, 

As  highest  taught,  doth  yet  descend 
To  parley  with  the  lamest  saw 

Of  rustic  justices,  and  blend 
Thy  loftier  wisdom  with  the  wit 

Of  shallow  lawyers  from  the  town, 
Who,  since  they  cannot  fathom  it, 

Miscalculate  its  true  renown  : 
Do  yet  your  thoughts  return  with  mine 

To  college  times,  when  in  the  shade 
Of  summer  nights  and  whispering  pine, 

We  sonneteered  th'  unconscious  maid  ? 


COLLEGE.  73 

When,  underneath  the  mighty  arch 

Where  hung  the  moon's  resplendent  horn, 
And  gazing  on  the  ceaseless  march 

Of  Scorpio  and  Capricorn, 
Great  thoughts  possessed  our  souls,  and  we — 

Though  dimly  we  suspected  then, 
That  they  with  stars  and  night  would  flee, 

And  leave  us  desolate  again — 
Loved  none  the  less  the  pleasing  spell 

That  held  us  in  its  drowsy  arms  : 
Night  and  soft  airs  uniting  well 

Their  fragrant,  rare,  Nepenthean  charms  ? 


But  chief  among  the  trooping  joys 

That  gleamed  in  Fancy's  marshalled  host, 
And  marched  with  steadiest  equipoise, 

And  claimed  our  hearts'  dear  reverence  most, 
Was  Love — not  clearly  drawn  his  shape, 

Nor  all  revealed,  as  when  the  form 
Of  some  high,  memorable  Cape, 

Faint  glistens  through  a  sunlit  storm, 

4 


74  COLLEGE. 

Well  known,  but  only  from  the  chart, 

And  hailed  as  guide  to  tranquil  seas ; 
So  Love  seemed  ancient  to  the  heart, 

But  only  from  its  histories. 
We  worshiped  each,  an  unknown  maid, 

Some  congeries  of  beauties  rare, 
Whose  worth  of  fame  a  bankrupt  made, 

And  kind,  we  hoped,  as  she  was  fair. 
Around  this  image,  Love  decreed 

That  all  should  worsjiip,  chiefly  we. 
How  easy  were  it  to  succeed, 

If  worship  were  the  guarantee ! 
No  worship  of  our  later  days, 

In  actual  lady's  actual  bower, 
Did  more  the  heart's  emotions  raise, 

Or  flatter  Love  with  greater  power, 
Than  ours  in  college  days,  unknown 

To  aught  but  us — unknown  the  shrine — 
If  shrine  there  were — a  strange,  vague  tone 

Of  music  from  a  source  divine ! 


EPIGRAMS      FROM      MARTIAL.  75 


EPIGRAMS  FROM  MARTIAL. 


AD  FLACCUM. 

FLACCUS,  you  ask  me  why  I  love  at  all ; 

Or  why,  if  loving,  I  retain  a  part 
Of  my  soul's  wealth  ?    What,  shall  a  girl  enthrall 

Supremely  and  forever  Martial's  heart  ? 
No.     I  would  not  surrender  my  estate 

In  my  own  self — nor  yet  too  niggard  be : 
On  female  pity  let  me  never  wait, 

Nor  treat  the  maid  with  harsh  severity. 
Safe  is  the  middle  course.     My  joyous  breast 

Shall  love  and  live,  and  live  in  willing  love  ; 
No  jealous  sorrows  shall  disturb  its  rest, 

Nor  shall  it  sigh  for  maids  who  cruel  prove. 


76  EPIGRAMS      FROM      MARTIAL 

AD    FABULLAM. 

FABULLA,  when  you  swear 

That  this  is  your  own  hair 

Which  you,  so  jaunty,  wear, 

Some  say  you  perjured  are ; 

But  I  deny  it : 

As  for  the  slander,  I  defy  it ; 

It  i*  your  hair — I  saw  you  buy  it ! 


AD  LESBIAM. 

GIVE  me  kisses,  sweetest  maid  : 
What !     "  How  many  ?"  have  you  said  ? 
Bid  me  count  the  ocean  waves, 
Or  shells  that  the  jEgean  sea 
Casts  on  the  shores  it  kindly  laves 
From  Argos  round  to  Thessaly ; 
Bid  me  count  the  bees  that  fly 

Round  the  Cecropian  mountains  high 
He  deserves  but  kisses  few, 

Who  calculates  their  number,  too. 


EPIGRAMS      FROM      MARTIAL.  77 

DE    DIAULO    MEDICO. 

DIAULUS  lately  was  a  Quack, 

Now  he  is  an  Undertaker ; 
JTis  but  going  one  step  back  : 
Those  whom  once  he  killed,  as  Quack, 

Now  he  hides  with  Mother  Nature. 


4D  PUELLAM. 

JANE  wants  to  marry  Thomas — that's  not  bad  : 
If  she  could  only  get  him,  'twould  be  stunning ; 

But  he  refuses — he's  a  knowing  lad, 
And  cleverer  than  she  takes  him  for — at  running. 


78  THE    POET'S    PRAYER 


THE  POET'S  PRAYER. 


HORACE,    ODE    XXXI.   BOOK    I. 

WHAT  asks  the  Poet  at  Apollo's  shrine, 
When  first  he  dedicates  his  votive  hymn ; 

When  with  proud  heart  he  pours  the  sacred  wine 
From  the  wide  goblet's  brim  ? 


No^the  fat  harvests  of  Calabrian  grain, 

Nor  flocks  that  crop  the  green  Sicilian  wold ; 

Not  gleaming  ivory  from  the  Indian  plain, 
Nor  world-alluring  gold. 

Let  the  gay  vintager,  'neath  sunny  skies, 
Trim  the  rich  clusters  of  Burgundian  vine: 

From  golden  beakers,  bought  with  Tyrian  dyes, 
Let  merchants  quaff  their  wine — 


THE      POET'S      PBAYER.  79 

Dear  to  the  Gods :  for  thrice  within  the  year 
Their  ships  have  passed  th'  Herculean  columns 

high, 
Which,  girt  with  waves,  and  storms  that  stun  the 

ear, 
Frown  on  the  Atlantic  sky. 


All  these  I  ask  not :  let  me  only  see 

My  board  with  grapes  and  olives  h  umbly  spread 
And  for  a  rarer  dessert,  let  there  be 

The  mallow's  tender  head. 


Thus,  Great  Apollo,  speed  my  happy  days : 
Let  healthy  mind  in  healthy  body  dwell ; 

Nor  to  my  waning  years  be  wanting  praise, 
Nor  music's  soothing  spell. 


80  THE      MILL-WHEEL. 


THE   MILL-WHEEL. 


WITHIN  the  mill-wheel's  dripping  cave, 

How  flies  the  white  and  gleaming  spray, 
In  music  falling  on  the  wave 

That  dances  to  the  open  day ! 
How  cool  the  eddies  of  the  stream, 

In  lazy  beats  returning  slow 
About  the  black  and  roughened  beam, 

Whose  mossy  feet  are  far  below  ! 

The  mill  above  is  racked  with  noise, 

And  gray  with  clouds  that  ever  fly  ; 
And  now  I  hear  the  miller's  voice, 

As  here  and  there  the  workmen  ply. 
I  hear  the  wagons  at  the  door, 

The  din  of  bargain  in  the  hall ; 
The  wheel  beneath  the  raftered  floor 

Groans  on,  the  willing  slave  of  all : 


THE      MILL-WHEEL.  81 

Unheedful  of  the  summer  wind 

That  o'er  the  rippling  water  skims ; 
Unheedful  of  the  frosts  that  bind 

With  icy  blades  its  dripping  rims  ; 
Nor  ever  slacks  its  measured  sound, 

To  think  of  all  it  has  to  do, 
But  patient  turns  its  endless  round, 

As  if  its  will  were  endless  too. 

By  night  the  water-gate  is  drawn, 

Beneath  the  wave  the  wheel  is  still ; 
And  waiting  for  the  ling'ring  dawn, 

In  silence  stands  the  lonely  mill. 
Sleep,  busy  wheel — a  respite  ask 

When  all  thy  daily  work  is  done  ; 
And  would  the  morn's  recurring  task 

Were  less  the  image  of  my  own. 


82      HINTS     FROM     THE     SIXTH     SATIRE 


HINTS  FROM  THE  SIXTH  SATIRE 


When  now  the  Dog-Star  lit  the  morning  sky, 
And  grapes  were  red,  and  autumn  hours  were  nigh, 
And  long  vacation,  hastening  to  a  close, 
Endeared  each  August  sun  that  loitering  rose  ; 
We  mused  away  a  shady  afternoon, 
Dreaming  the  Future  that  would  meet  us  soon ; 
From  this  to  that  we  wandered,  passing  o'er 
Wide  tracts  of  hope,  and  fame,  and  love,  and  lore, 
With  easy,  careless  flight.     Ah  !  bliss  of  youth, 
Ere  care  and  sorrow  bring  unwelcome  truth. 
And  I,  scholastic  biased,  praised  a  life 
Lone,  celibate,  and  far  from  worldly  strife. 
But  then  Horatio  laughed  :  "  A  foolish  dream ! 
Let  but  a  maiden's  eyes  upon  you  beam, 
And  where's  your  frost-work?"    "  Let  the  sage  de 
clare," 

I  said,  "  if  we  must,  slavish,  serve  the  fair — 
Not  so  have  I  perused  the  lives  of  men 
Of  whom  we  say,  '  They  have  not  lived  in  vain.' 


HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH     SATIRE.     83 

Nay,  from  all  records,  easy  'tis  to  prove 
That  Genius  has  no  heavier  clog  than  Love." 

"  0,  rebel  to  your  father's  faith  and  deeds  ! 
If  such  crude  heresies  your  learning  breeds, 
I  cast  away  the  ancient  musty  saws, 
And  Love  and  Nature  shall  enforce  their  laws." 

"  Made  virtutc,  0  my  friend  !"  I  said, 
"  Let  me  read  you  what  I  myself  have  read ; 
Nor  dare  despise  the  wisdom  of  the  bard, 
Though  you  may  hold  my  verse  in  slight  regard. 
To  your  condition  I  adapt  the  strain, 
And  hymn  Horatio  in  the  '  Ercles '  vein." 
"If  I  may  yawn  or  sleep,"  he  said,  "  agreed." 
"  Agreed,"  said  I.     "  Then,  worst  of  poets,  read !" 

Once,  I  believe,  on  this  degenerate  earth, 
Virtue,  and  laws,  and  morals,  had  their  birth ; 
When  the  cold  grotto  and  the  mountain  cave 
A  resting-place  to  flock  and  shepherd  gave ; 
When,  on  the  skins  of  bears  and  lions  spread, 
The  rustic  mother  made  her  children's  bed. 


84     HINTS     FROM      THE     SIXTH     SATIRE. 

A  simple  soul,  unlike  that  Roman  fair, 

Who  mourned  dead  sparrows  to  a  plaintive  air; — 

Uncouth  and  rough,  her  progeny  attest 

The  strength  they  drew  from  her  abundant  breast. 

For  when  the  earth  and  when  the  heavens  were 

new, 

A  giant  race  of  men  from  giants  grew. 
Peaceful  and  strong,  they  tilled  the  joyous  earth, 
And  Nature  blessed  the  homes  that  gave  them 

birth. 

Such  was  the  golden  age :  the  silver  came, 
And  brought  the  god  of  fond  Danae's  flame  : 
No  cot  too  lowly  to  be  safe  from  Jove, 
No  maid  unnoticed  by  his  lawless  love. 
Then  fled  Astrsea !  then  no  longer  lay 
Fair  mansions  open  to  the  public  way : 
Trembling,  the  rustic  feared  licentious  art, 
And  safe  no  longer  was  the  virgin's  heart. 

Old  is  the  custom,  nor  improved  by  age, 
With  lying  fraud  the  female  heart  to  gauge, 
Try  all  "its  weaker  points,  and  shrewdly  mine 
Just  where  self-love  and  love  for  you  combine. 


HINTS      FROM      THE     SIXTH       SATIRE.      85 

But  woman  in  the  brazen  age  began 
To  wreak  revenge  upon  inconstant  man. 
Whatever  ills  our  present  time  may  bring, 
A  faithless  woman  is  no  modern  thing : 
Fruit  of  our  craft,  perverted  by  our  art, 
She  triumphs  newly  in  each  broken  heart. 

Yet,  my  Horatio,  by  the  world  'tis  said, 

You  have,  though  young,  made  up  your  mind  to 

wed. 

The  presents  and  the  contracts  are  prepared, 
Nor  are  your  tailor  or  your  barber  spared. 
It  is  your  ring  that  sparkles  to  the  day, 
When  the  fair  Julia  promenades  Broadway. 

Oh  !   woman's  wiles,  that  could  a  Samson  bind — 
Is  this  Horatio,  once  so  strong  of  mind  ? 
What,  when  the  hempen  cord  the  neck  invites, 
When  sly  garroters  fill  our  streets  o'  nights  ; 
When  from  your  window  high,  an  easy  cast 
Will  make  your  flight  your  longest  and  your  last; 
Nay,  when  the  Staten  Island  ferry  shows 
So  sure  an  ending  of  all  human  woes — 


86     HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH     SATIRE. 

Why  choose  a  fate,  a  fate  unending,  too, 

That  wise  men  shun  ? — but  these,  alas !  are  few. 

The  college  says,  no  bachelor's  retreat 
Vies  with  Horatio's — so  exact  and  neat. 
No  woman's  wars  its  owner's  rest  surprise — 
Procul  profana,  meets  all  female  eyes  ; 
A  well-clad  Jenkins  spreads  the  quiet  roast — 
Jenkins,  your  marriage  will  amaze  the  most : 
Nor  count  it  strange  that  wonder  seize  us  all, 
If  in  a  female  net,  Horatio  fall. 

0  wondrous  being,  that  can  thus  enchain 
The  haughty  spurner  of  the  female  rein  ! 

Let  votive  thanks  proclaim  your  new-found  joy, 

And  garlands  offer  to  the  Archer  Boy. 

Oh !  who  is  Julia  ?     Are  her  conquests  few, 

That  she,  so  young  in  years,  has  fixed  on  you  ? 

Or,  do  a  hundred  rapt  companions  share 

In  those  love-tokens  you  so  gayly  wear  ? 

Can  you  aver  yourself  the  only  one 

On  whom  your  Julia's  eyes  have  fondly  shone  ? 

1  know  a  girl,  who  lives  at  home,  afar, 
Where  the  blue  Catskill  cleaves  the  upper  air  ; 


HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH      SATIRE.     87 

Distant  her  father's  house,  and  lone  the  spot, 
The  tax-collector  scarcely  knows  the  route  5 
Yet  twenty  lovers  ken  the  devious  road 
That  often  guides  them  to  her  sire's  abode. 
If  "  each  is  able  who  believes  he  can," 
Then,  on  my  faith,  is  each  the  happy  man. 

0  wise  Horatio  !  can  the  town  e'er  show 
A  wife  devoted  to  your  fate  and  you  ? 

1  grant,  in  wit  and  manly  sense  you  shine — 
But  can  you  troll  the  sentimental  line  ? 

Or  do  you  catch  each  last-imported  air, 
Where  ballet-girls  display,  and  foot-lights  glare  ? 
Say,  can  you  match  your  rivals  in  the  dance — 
Like  them  can  you  direct  the  tender  glance, 
When  the  soft  motions  of  the  reeling  waltz 
Bring  cheek  to  cheek,  and  fire  the  bounding  pulse  ? 
Like  Roscius,  simulate  a  Hamlet's  frown, 
Or,  a  young  Romeo,  drink  the  midnight  down  ? 
Dullest  of  mortals — can  you  hope  to  please, 
Who  cannot  act,  or  sing,  or  dance  like  these  ? 
If,  a  grave  judge,  you  try  the  censor's  art, 
You'll  find  the  ladies  do  not  like  the  part ; 


88     HINTS      FROM      THE      SIXTH      SATIRE 

When  in  May  Fair  the  gay  Bathyllus  dines, 
The  sage  Quinctilian  in  his  garret  pines. 


But  grant  the  ring,  and  grant  the  contract  too, 
Will  the  fair  Julia  to  yourself  be  true  ? 
Straight  to  the  altar  will  she  take  her  way, 
When  patient  waiting  brings  the  expected  day? 
Oh !  who  can  count  the  fancies,  passion-bred, 
That  now,  as  ever,  turn  the  female  head  ! 
Does  rank,  or  wit,  or  fashion  ever  pall  ? 
Yes  :  Fancy  reigns  supreme,  and  laughs  at  all. 

To  sultry  Egypt,  says  the  ancient  rhyme, 

Came  the  fair  Hippia — fairest  of  her  time  : 

On  Rome's  broad  avenues,  her  father's  gate 

Stood  open  only  to  the  rich  and  great. 

There  did  she  wed  a  senator  and  lord, 

Who  loved,  as  Romans  loved,  who  kept  their  word. 

But,  fatal  day !  a  gladiator  came, 

And  changed  the  current  of  her  life  and  fame  : 

Terrific  Giant !  with  a  single  hand 

He  threw  the  panting  leopard  on  the  sand  ; 


HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH      SATIRE.     89 

The  fierce  Numidian  lion,  human-fed, 
First  from  that  awful  frown  abjectly  fled, 
Confessed  his  conqueror  while  he  coursed  the  ring, 
And  died,  forgetful  of  his  deadly  spring. 
But  bloodier  deeds  the  populace  admired  ; 
And  who  like  Sergius,  when  of  beasts  they  tired  ? 
When  thumbs  went  up  around  the  ^Edile's  stand, 
And  hundreds  dropped  before  his  murderous  brand, 
Survivor  sole,  the  dauntless  man  of  blood, 
Panting  with  slaughter,  in  the  circus  stood ; 
Perceived  those  lustrous  eyes  that  on  him  turn — 
Ah !  matchless  eyes  that  could  so  deeply  burn ! 
Noble  Fabricius,  at  the  Forum  stay, 
Strength  and  the  sword  have  lured  thy  bride  away. 
Where  Pharos  glows,  and  warm  Egyptian  air 
Stirs  the  slow  Nile,  have  fled  the  raptured  pair ; 
Daring  the  treacherous  winds  and  angry  sea, 
Fled  from  the  games,  the  baths,  and  least — from 
thee ! 

Long  dead  is  Hippia — but  every  day 
Repeats,  and  will  repeat,  the  ancient  lay : 
Oh !  why  did  Helen  win  a  deathless  fame, 
A  fame  whose  lustre  gilds  the  brow  of  shame  ? 


90     HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH      SATIRE. 

Why  gleams  so  long  the  sad  enduring  light 
Of  this  fair  sinner,  robed  in  legend  bright  ? 
Yet  hearts  are  tender :  passion's  throbs  are  strong, 
And  jealous  husbands  always  in  the  wrong. 
Avoid,  rash  man,  to  use  a  husband's  power, 
When  the  gay  tempter  first  invades  thy  bower ; 
Nor  fear  that  from  your  side  your  wife  will  stray, 
Unless  your  negligence  prepare  the  way. 
To  every  wily,  every  flattering  art, 
Oppose  the  kindness  of  a  loving  heart : 
Revive  the  soft  attentions  you  displayed, 
When  first  you  wooed  the  coy  and  bashful  maid. 
Think  not  a  woman  can  forget  the  charm 
Of  the  soft  whisper  and  the  willing  arm ; 
If  you  withhold  these  tributes  of  your  love, 
And  hope  with  rugged  threats  her  heart  to  move, 
Blame  not  your  fate,  nor  woman's  faith  despise, 
If  to  another,  Heaven  transfer  the  prize. 

But  justly  blame  the  foolish  wretch  wrho  made 
His  wife  the  venture  of  a  sordid  trade ; 
Who  bought  consent  with  money  counted  down, 
And  bribed  a  rustic  with  a  house  in  town. 


HINTS      FROM      THE      SIXTH      SATIRE.      91 

On  legal  parchment  were  the  contracts  drawn, 
The  vows  were  registered  by  priests  in  lawn ; 
A  cringing  father  gave  the  bride  away, 
A  scheming  mother  blessed  the  golden  day  ; 
The  spreading  news  provokes  the  jealous  smart, 
And  baleful  envy  fires  each  rival's  heart. 
But  when  did  age  and  money  e'er  control 
The  quick  emotions  of  the  female  soul? 
Too  soon  the  dastard  lost  his  feeble  hold 
Upon  the  woman  purchased  by  his  gold ; 
While  his  weak  limbs  compel  unwilling  rest, 
She  lights  the  torches  and  prepares  the  feast ; 
She  fills  the  cups,  and  twines  the  garlands  gay, 
Bids  through  the  halls  the  nimble  dancers  play, 
And  prompts  the  revels  till  the  dawn  of  day. 
Nor  does  she  force  the  miser's  heart  alone 
O'er  costly  feasts  and  wasted  wine  to  groan  : 
With  jealous  pangs  she  poisons  all  his  life, 
Till  death  release  him  from  his  pains,  and  wife  ! 

Such  pensive  tales  of  matrimonial  woe 
Shall  surely  meet  you  whereso'er  you  go  ; 
And  if  the  mention  should  your  taste  offend, 
Blame  not  the  humble  bard,  but  them,  my  friend. 


92     HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH      SATIRE. 

But  grant  your  Julia  good,  and  fair,  and  true, 
Say  that  she  venerates  her  sire  and  you  ; 
Let  her  be  fonder  than  the  Sabine  band 
Who  brought  fair  peace  to  all  the  Roman  land  ; 
In  fine,  a  rara  avis — such  a  bird 
As  sweetly  singing,  you  nor  I  have  heard : 
Yet  with  all  this,  and  with  much  more  beside, 
The  deadly  bane  of  all  her  charms  is  Pride. 

Oh!  woman's  pride !     I'd  rather  wed  a  slave 

Than  thee,  Cornelia,  mother  of  the  brave, 

If  with  your  virtues  and  your  wealth  you  bring 

Those  cursed  airs  that  from  such  dower  spring ! 

Oh  !  take  away  those  legends  of  your  race  : 

How  your  great  grandsire  held  the  Premier's  place  ; 

How,  with  applauding  voice,  the  state  conspires 

To  sound  the  praises  of  your  line  of  sires. 

Let  this  suffice — if  e'er  the  marriage  state 

I  rashly  enter,  spare  me  such  a  mate ! 

Who  is  not  wiser  than  th'  egregious  fool 
Who  takes  a  wife  from  out  a  modern  school, 
Where  female  souls  o'er  Greek  and  Latin  dream, 
And  Ologies  are  bolted  by  the  ream  ? 


HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH      SATIRE.      93 

Will  Greek  compound  a  dessert  or  a  pie, 
Or  half-learned  Latin  aid  in  housewifery  ? 
And  yet  these  noble  tongues,  if  understood, 
Commend  themselves  to  all  the  wise  and  good. 
But  the  pert  Miss  disdains  the  studious  line, 
Contented  she  in  smatterings  to  shine  ; 
But  shines  so  ill,  your  only  thought  is  this — 
If  such  be  knowledge,  ignorance  is  bliss  ! 

Short  is  the  maxim,  but  'tis  full  of  weight — 
Than  wives,  the  good  deserve  a  better  fate. 
Submit  your  head,  and  let  your  neck  prepare 
The  yoke  of  your  ambitious  spouse  to  wear, 
And  while  you  yield,  your  wife  will  never  spare : 
Quick,  at  her  word,  you  send  the  poor  away; 
You  pass  a  bargain,  if  she  thunder  nay ; 
Your  trusty  college  chum — your  dearest  friend — 
She  to  the  right-about  will  boldly  send. 
She  now  will  guide  your  taste — your  bosom's  lord, 
She  tunes  your  voice,  and  modulates  each  word ; 
This  shall  you  like — not  that;   this  friend  shall 

shun, 
And  with  a  shilling  cut  your  favorite  son. 


94     HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH      SATIRE. 

These  are  hard  burdens — harder  you  endure, 
If  your  dear  spouse  affect  the  foreign  tour ; 
No  Eastern  queen  was  ever  half  so  grand, 
Or  had  so  fond  a  slave  at  her  command. 
But  still  obey — and  still  you'll  find  it  true, 
That  if  you  marry,  you'll  have  work  to  do. 

Start  not,  Horatio  !  but  be  firm  and  bold, 

While  I  the  source  of  greater  woes  unfold : 

Mothers-in-Law  I  sing — a  baleful  race, 

Who  leave  no  concord  where  they  find  a  place ; 

Who  know  no  pity — no  forbearance  know, 

But  o'er  the  ruins  of  a  household  grow  ; 

But  let  it  partly  for  their  acts  atone, 

That,  at  the  worst,  your  wife  can  bring  but  one ! 

Despair  of  slippered  quiet  while  she  lives, 
Or  goods  secure :  for  on  your  spoil  she  thrives. 
Deep  in  your  tradesmen's  books  she  finds  a  place, 
And  swells  your  Christmas  bills  with  easy  grace : 
"  These  comforts,  while  my   daugher  lasts,   she 

needs, 
Poor  wretch,  o'er  whom  a  mother's  bosom  bleeds ! 


HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH      SATIRE.      95 

Once  she  was  young  and  happy,  gay  and  fair ; 
Now,  mark  her  altered  face  and  languid  air : 
Slave  to  your  whims,  she  wastes  her  life  away, 
And  Death  too  soon  will  seize  his  easy  prey : 
While  thus  her  youthful  charms  and  graces  fade, 
Dare  not  to  slight  the  ruin  you  have  made  ; 
Do  not  remorseless  see  your  victim  die : 
Yield  to  her  fancy — please  her  longing  eye. 
What  baseness  to  begrudge  a  trifling  cost, 
When  soon  you'll  mourn  the  treasure  you  have 
lost !" 


Surrender,  friend,  nor  tempt  th'  unequal  game — 

To  fight  and  not  to  fight,  are  both  the  same. 

Perhaps  you'll  say — and  say  with  justice  too — 

A  dying  woman  has  a  deal  to  do, 

And  runs  up  bills  as  if  she  died  for  two. 

Thus  free  your  mind,  thus  vent  your  wrath  in  air. 

To  marry  not  a  woman,  but  a  pair, 

Is  but  the  common  lot — the  common  rule, 

That  binds  alike  philosopher  and  fool. 


96     HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH      SATIRE. 

In  the  good  times  when  George  the  Fourth  was 

king, 

The  Ladies  loved  the  race-course  and  the  ring ; 
Lisped  dainty  oaths,  drank  healths  a  finger  deep, 
And  reckoned  lightly  of  a  five-barred  leap. 
And  still  the  ardor  of  the  British  dame, 
Invades  our  modern  fair  with  equal  flame  : 
But  changed  the  mode,  nor  is  its  course  the  same  ; 
For  now  they  tempt  the  sacred  preacher's  part, 
And  with  learn' d  airs  essay  the  healing  art ; 
Burst  through  the  shackles  of  our  narrow  code, 
And  prove  that  Home  is  not  their  true  abode. 
For  thus,  when  folly-mad,  the  female  soul 
Nor  loves  a  home,  nor  brooks  its  mild  control. 
What,  shall  your  spouse  a  loud  haranguer  be? 
Can  she  adore  at  once  the  crowd  and  thee  ? 
Then  let  her  habit  ape  the  cut  of  ours, 
Rub  from  her  cheeks  those  rosy  blushing  flowers ; 
Toughen  those  tender  limbs,  enforce  the  gait, 
The  graces  banish  that  aAund  her  wait ; 
And  view  the  monster  calmly,  if  you  can, 
The  proper  scorn  of  woman  and  of  man. 


HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH      8ATIBB.     97 

But  why  does  vain  ambition  thus  invade 
Those  tender  souls,  for  Love  and  Duty  made  ? 
Why  should  the  fair  transgress  the  silken  bond 
That  would  detain  them  in  their  graceful  round  ? 
Why  do  they,  thoughtless,  ally  with  our  foes, 
When  leagues  of  follies  shake  the  state's  repose  ? 

Once,  humble  fortune  made  our  women  chaste, 

Keepers  at  home,  and  envious  of  waste ; 

Content  to  be  the  handmaid  of  her  lord, 

Each  matron,  duteous,  spread  his  humble  board ; 

Cared  for  his  comfort,  made  his  fame  her  pride, 

Nor  dreamed  beyond  her  home  of  aught  beside. 

While  on  his  lips  the  state  and  forum  hung, 

She  for  sweet  household  words  reserved  her  tongue ; 

Or  if  with  industry  and  busy  care, 

He  courted  Fortune,  and  she  heard  his  prayer, 

She  did  not  waste  the  rich  increasing  store, 

Nor  while  he  gathered,  dissipate  the  more. 

But  now  we  suffer  all  the  thousand  woes 
That  scourge  a  people  sunk  in  long  repose  ; 
For  Luxury,  more  fierce  than  hostile  arms, 
Deludes  the  social  realm  with  baleful  charms. 
6 


98     HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH      SATIRE. 

No  crime  is  absent  where  she  rules  the  state, 
And  round  her  throne  all  deadly  vices  wait. 
She  steeps  our  youth  in  swift  precocious  crime, 
Before  they  touch  the  years  of  manly  prime  ; 
Taints  every  office  that  our  rulers  hold, 
And  buys  up  justice  with  a  purse  of  gold. 
If  such  the  truth,  if  such  our  manhood  grown, 
Can  you  expect  the  sex  to  stand  alone  ? 
Will  woman  soar  above  her  spouse  or  sire  ? 
Or  than  the  fountain,  can  the  stream  rise  higher  ? 

Bad  men  are  bad  ;  but  woman  bad  is  worse : 

Such  is  the  law  of  Nature — such  its  curse. 

What  oaths,  what  shameless  passion,  when  you 

meet 

The  reckless  harlot  in  the  public  street ! 
This  is  the  dire  extreme — but  grant  it  so  ; 
And  does  it  less  the  course  of  Nature  show  ? 
So  true  in  all,  that  when  the  angels  fell, 
The  highest  seraph  led  the  van  of  Hell ! 
So  true  in  all,  that  in  the  subtlest  phase 
In  which  the  front  of  life  its  heart  betrays, 
The  sinning  woman  sins  the  worst  of  all — 
If  in  the  least  she  stumble,  she  must  fall. 


HINTS      FROM     THE     SIXTH      SATIBE.      99 

Nor  dream  that  soon  as  wealth  and  ease  begin, 
And  boundless  pleasures  teach  us  how  to  sin, 
That  Nature's  laws  will  from  their  track  depart, 
Or  drive  temptation  from  the  female  heart ; 
That  then  a  foreign  vice  will  cease  to  charm, 
Or  French  philosophy  protect  from  harm. 
As  o'er  the  crowned  and  wealthy  Roman  state, 
When  long  luxurious  Peace  had  loosed  the  gate, 
Flowed  lawless  Sybaris,  and  drunken  Rhodes, 
And  all  the  license  of  the  Capuan  codes  ; 
So  now  our  manners  show  the  foreign  stain 
That  blots  the  march  of  commerce  and  of  gain, 
And  darkest,  deepest,  worst  of  all,  displays 
Where  female  art  the  social  sceptre  sways. 

Dismiss  your  graver  cares,  and  venture  out 
When  some  fair  sinner  gives  a  midnight  rout, 
What  time  the  honest  world  is  safe  abed, 
And  peaceful  slumber  stills  each  virtuous  head. 
Then  when  the  horns  with  brassy  tremors  sound, 
And  close-locked  pairs  in  dizzying  whirls  go  round  ; 
When  the  vexed  air  a  deafening  chaos  fills, 
Until  your  hearing  seems  the  worst  of  ills  ; 


100      HINTS    FROM    THE    SIXTH   SATIRE. 

When  lavish  goblets,  all  too  often  poured, 
In  foaming  beauty  glisten  round  the  board; 
When  now  the  reeling  house  tumultuous  swims, 
And  candles  double  as  the  eye-sight  dims ; 
When  the  kind  favors  of  the  hour  permit 
The  farthest  license  of  the  dubious  wit ; 
When  virgins,  bolder  than  their  lovers  grown, 
Demand  an  ardor  equal  to  their  own — 
Then,  as  the  morning  pales  the  waxen  glare, 
And  rising  sun-beams  pierce  the  heavy  air, 
Pick  through  the  noisy  crowd  your  careful  way ; 
And  while  you  taste  the  freshness  of  the  day, 
Lament  the  milder  orgies  of  the  state 
That  nursed  a  Louis  and  his  precious  mate, 
And  blame  your  destiny  you  live  so  late. 

I  know  how  sagely  ancient  friends  advise 
The  help  of  guardians,  and  of  watchful  eyes ; 
Restrain  their  social  follies — keep  them  in, 
Nor  let  the  wandering  footstep  tempt  to  sin. 
SED  QUIS  CUSTODIET — you  know  the  rest ; 
A  task  ungrateful,  difficult  at  best. 


HINTS    FROM    THE    SIXTH   SATIRE.      101 

For  when  the  morning  stage  your  bulk  conveys 
To  the  dim  office  where  you  pass  your  days, 
To  whom  will  you  the  manly  part  confide, 
Of  confidential  jailor  to  your  bride? 
Or  when  three  courses  and  your  pint  of  wine 
Your  nodding  brain  to  slumbers  soft  incline, 
[ow  vain  to  strive  against  the  drowsy  hour, 
evening  papers  lend  their  leaden  power !) 
Who  shall  escort  your  daughter  or  your  spouse, 

play  Asmodeus  in  your  neighbor's  house  ? 
fay,  should  you  pension  Argus  by  the  year, 
jid  bribe  the  wistful  winds  to  lend  an  ear, 
rour  wife  is  cunning,  doubles  their  rewards, 
md  finds  her  safety  in  your  chosen  guards ! 

vain  would  melting  words  and  airs  combine, 
Tenors  did  not  sing,  or  Bassos  shine  ; 
'or  since  the  Opera  has  hither  flown, 
And  we  can  call  the  lyric  stage  our  own, 
Which  please  the  fair  the  most,  'tis  hard  to  tell — 
Italian  strains,  or  those  who  sing  them  well. 

Ah !  mournful  truth — how  oft  the  morning  sheet 
And  table-talk  their  dire  results  repeat ! 


102      HINTS    FROM    THE    SIXTH    SATIRE. 

Teach  your  fair  daughters,  with  the  strictest  rules, 

To  fly  from  fortune-hunters  and  from  fools  ; 

To  flirt  with  prudence,  and  with  just  degree 

To  draw  the  line  between  the  kind  and  free : 

Let  learned  graces  lend  their  costly  aids 

To  gild  the  charms  of  these  accomplished  maids ; 

Still,  naught,  and  worse  than  naught,  is  all  this  art, 

When  Loves  of  Tenors  storm  the  female  heart. 

A  thousand  virgins  at  Edgardo's  shrine 

Pour  their  fond  sighs,  and  floral  offerings  twine ; 

Nor  can  the  hero's  generous  feelings  bear, 

That  they  should  waste  their  vows  on  empty  air. 

Now  from  the  painted  lawn,  the  ochred  grove, 

His  songs  responsive  whisper  love  for  love ; 

The  melting  magic  of  his  tuneful  voice 

Invites  surrender  where  he  rests  his  choice, 

Compels  all  foes  and  obstacles  to  yield, 

And  leaves  Eclgardo  master  of  the  field ; 

Then  "strange  elopement  by  the  midnight  train" — • 

The  world's  loud  laughter,  and  the  mother's  pain. 

The  stage-deluded  fair  our  pity  claim, 
But  fly  with  hasty  fear  the  wrathful  dame, 
With  brows  of  iron  and  with  eyes  of  flame  ; 


HINTS    PROM    THE    SIXTH    SATIRE.       103 


>Who  holds  the  luckless  family  in  awe, 
And  boasts  where'er  she  goes,  her  word  is  law. 
Terrific  theme  !  with  careful  art  control 
Your  cautious  words,  nor  vex  her  angry  soul ; 
For,  of  all  woes  that  scourge  our  wretched  race, 
A  brawling  woman  holds  the  foremost  place. 

Nor  much  inferior  in  the  scale  of  ill 

Is  she  who  practises  the  critic's  skill ; 

Compares  the  ancient  and  the  modern  song, 

And  tells  what  faults  to  this  and  that  belong. 

She  praises  Virgil,  but  she  must  aver 

That  in  his  figures  he  was  wont  to  err  : 

How  could  jEneas  wed  the  Tyrian  queen, 

And  those  long  centuries  of  time  between  ? 

Homer  she  doubts.     "  In  that  barbaric  night, 

It  were  a  question  whether  bards  could  write  ; 

The  pleasing  poems  that  adorn  his  name, 

And  which  not  wholly  undeserve  their  fame, 

Are  fruit  and  product  of  a  later  day, 

Styled  '  Homer'  in  a  sort  of  jesting  way, 

As  now  *  Anonymous'  we  often  say." 

Nor  less  does  Shakspeare  meet  her  learned  doubt : 

Historic  fiction  of  an  age  gone  out ; 


104      HINTS    FROM    THE    SIXTH   SATIRE. 

A  tavern-jester,  with  a  forehead  high, 

Behind  whose  smooth  expanse  no  brains  were 

known  to  lie. 

Tis  a  keen  joke :  the  wits  of  Shakspeare's  time 
Made  him  the  post  whereon  to  hang  their  rhyme : 
Then  if  the  verse  were  praised,  they  took  the  praise  ; 
If  damned,  they  asked,  "  Who  writes  such  shock 
ing  plays  ?" 

This  game,  for  Verulam  and  Raleigh  fit, 
A  pastime  exquisite  of  courtly  wit, 
Has  made  us  heir  to  that  immortal  page 
That  glows  the  brighter  as  it  gathers  age. 
But  as  in  Homer,  so  in  Shakspeare  too, 
The  age  it  is,  and  not  the  man,  we  view. 
The  age  of  heroes  and  the  age  of  song, 
Inscribed  by  all  the  minds  that  through  it  throng, 
Condensed  at  last  within  a  single  name, 
That  smoothly  walks  th'  eternal  road  of  fame. 
Such  is  the  theme  at  Ladies'  lectures  read, 
The  wondrous  offspring  of  a  female  head ; 
And  backed  by  logic  of  such  trenchant  stuff, 
That  e'en  logicians  own  'tis  quite  enough. 


HINTS    FBOM    THE    SIXTH   SATIRE.       105 


Now  let  the  bard — 

"  Desist,"  Horatio  cried, 
"  Nor  write  your  author  dead,  and  me  beside. 
Well  for  your  bones,  that  centuries  ago 
Your  injured  poet  went  where  all  must  go. 
What  monstrous  jumble  have  you  here  composed, 
Old  times  and  new  in  one  rough  shell  inclosed  ? 
I  pass  your  dullness,  pass  your  halting  rhyme, 
The  slanderous  verse  that  ill  befits  the  time ; 
I  only  ask,  desist  to  ape  the  sage 
Who  mourns  the  follies  of  his  buried  age. 
In  vain  the  long-drawn  martial  verse  you  try, 
Your  mother's  counsels  give  your  muse  the  lie ; 
And  if  love's  passion  e'er  your  bosom  stirs, 
Another's  whispers  will  but  strengthen  hers." 

"  The  argument  ad  hominem,"  I  cried, 

"  Your  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend — your  bride. 

But  let  the  public  judge  between  us  two, 

If  I  can  find  a  publisher — or  you." 


106  ADVICE. 


ADVICE. 


A  CERTAIN  preacher  asked  a  friend's  advice 
About  his  sermons,  for  his  drowsy  flock 
Strayed  off,  or  slept,  and  recked  not  of  the  Word. 
The  critic  came,  and  kept  an  open  ear, 
Till  in  the  vestry  met,  the  preacher  asked : 
"Well,  well?"     And  he:   "With  candor  I  have 

heard, 

And  your  discourse  a  certain  something  lacks. 
And  I  suggest,  that  to  recall  your  fold, 
You  find  some  one  to  write  your  sermons  for  you ; 
And  pardon  me,  if  also  I  advise, 
That — then,  you  get  somebody  else  to  read  them  !" 


EPIGRAMS    FEOM    MARTIAL.  107 

EPIGRAMS    FROM    MARTIAL. 


DE   GEMELLO    ET   MARONILLA. 

G-EMELLUS  wants  to  marry  Maronilla  ; 
Day  and  night  he  hangs  about  her  villa  ; 
Seeks  and  urges — hastens  on  the  day ; 
From  her  side  is  scarce  an  hour  away ; 
Lavish  gifts  on  her  is  ever  pressing : 
Such  devotion — faith,  'tis  quite  distressing  ! 
Is  she  handsome  ?     Handsome  as  a  hedge- 
Hog  ;  her  face  would  set  your  teeth  on  edge  ; 
Stupid,  old,  and  ugly :  but  her  money 
Turns  the  gall  of  all  this  dose  to  honey  ; 
And  the  sweetest  drop  is  this  :  her  cough 
Is  sure  in  twenty  weeks  to  take  her  off. 

IN  CALENUM. 

ONCE  your  fortune  was  but  small, 
Then  your  home  was  free  to  all ; 
Joyous,  gay,  and  prodigal. 
Such  a  generous  host,  Calenus, 
We,  your  thousand  friends,  between  us 
Wished  that  Fortune's  happy  chance 


108  EPIGRAMS    FROM     MARTIAL. 

To  you  her  bounties  might  impart, 
And  recompense  with  rich  advance 
The  largess  of  your  liberal  heart. 
The  kindly  goddess  heard  our  prayer, 
Made  you  unexpected  heir 
Of  two  rich  widows,  in  a  day 
Snatched  from  their  estates  away. 

What  then?    At  once  your  doors  you  close, 
Compel  yourself  a  pauper's  woes. 
On  crusts  and  wilted  lettuce  dine, 
Washed  down  with  cheap  and  musty  wine. 
No  longer  do  you  wish  a  friend, 
For  fear  that  you'll  be  asked  to  lend. 
No  longer  you  enjoy  the  hour 
When  wit  and  mirtb  assert  their  power. 
Your  life  is  gain ;  your  only  joy 
Is  baseband  sordid  usury. 
But  still  our  prayer  to  Fortune  rises, 
That  she  will  grant  you  fresh  surprises ; 
If  she'll  but  double,  treble,  your  possessings, 
You'll  starve  to  death — 'twould  be  the  best 
of  blessings. 


•     EPIGRAMS    FROM    MARTIAL.  109 

AD  PRISCUM. 

You  ask  me  why  so  late  in  life 
I  am  a  bachelor.    My  wife 
I  have  not  found,  as  yet ;  but  you,  inhuman, 
Desire  me  to  wed  that  wealthy  woman 
Who  has  a  fancy  for  me — not  to  boast ; 
And  sends  me  billet-doux  by  every  post. 
I  like  her  not :  she  is  too  proud  for  me : 
A  matron,  to  my  mind,  should  ever  be 
Less  than  her  husband ;  only  thus  we  find 
The  sexes  in  equality  combined. 


AD  CATONEM  IN  THEATRO. 

0  RIGID  Judge !  already  well  you  know 
The  secrets  of  the  circus  and  the  show  ; 
The  games  of  mountebanks  ;  the  midnight  ball ; 
The  maskers'  revels — yes,  you  know  them  all ; 
When  lo,  I  meet  you  in  the  crowded  pit ! 
But  why  stand  up  ?    'Tis  easier  to  sit : 
Or  did  you  only  come  through  mud  and  rain, 
In  order  that  you  might  go  out  again  ? 


110  ABOOSTOOK. 

AROOSTOOK. 


THE  sun  is  coming  from  the  South, 
I  hear  the  bluebird's  cheerful  lay  ; 

The  river  from  its  loosened  mouth 
Pours  leagues  of  crashing  ice  away. 

And  this  is  April.     Once  I  dreamed 

Away  a  southern  happy  year, 
Where  sunbeams  through  the  roses  gleamed 

In  April.     Are  there  roses  here  ? 

What  binds  the  race  to  Labrador, 
The  squalid  wastes  of  Hecla's  side, 

The  Orkneys,  and  the  Norway  shore, 
And  rocks  that  front  the  Polar  tide  ; 

To  which  these  piny  realms  of  Maine 
Are  gardens  ?     Though  the  sun  invite, 

And  call  me  to  the  South  again, 
To  tropic  air  and  balmy  night, 

Yet  here  I  linger — here  is  Home : 
Its  tender  spell  is  round  me  cast, 

Endearing  skies  of  sullen  gloom, 

Short  summer  marred  by  bitter  blast. 


AT      MANILLA.  Ill 


AT   MANILLA 


THE  ship  that  bore  me  here  at  twenty-two, 

Lies  underneath  the  sea ; 
Nor  she,  nor  other  ship  that  sails  the  blue, 

To  homeward  shores  shall  ever  carry  me. 

If  life  give  little,  yet  it  gives  one  choice, 

Before  we  fix  our  fate : 
Be  mine,  Content.    Who  seeks  for  greater  joys, 

On  him  shall  sorrows  fall  with  greater  weight. 

I  will  not  nurture  friends  to  see  them  die, 

Or  watch  their  love  decay  ; 
Nor  taste  God's  dearest  gift — a  child's  sweet  cry — 

To  be  soul-wrecked  when  that  is  snatched  away. 

Within  my  heart,  in  soft,  perpetual  bloom, 

There  lives  a  maiden  face, 
And  all  my  life  her  constant  smiles  illume, 

Nor  leave  for  sadness  any  resting-place. 


112  AT      MANILLA. 

The  kiss  she  gave  is  on  my  lips  to-day, 

Wanned  with  a  balmy  sigh ; 
To-morrow  there — nor  will  it  pass  away 

So  long  as  I  am  true  to  memory. 

Though  I  grow  old*  yet  she  will  never  change 

Her  smile  will  be  as  fair. 
Shall  I  return  to  gaze  on  features  strange, 

And  reft  by  time  of  charms  that  once  were  there  ? 

If  Fate  hath  made  us  so,  that  every  hour 

She  steals  away  a  joy, 
Yet  this  is  left,  that  I  escape  her  power, 

Nor  rest  my  soul  on  what  she  may  destroy. 


OVID.  113 


OVID. 


PAEIS  AD  HELENAM. 

DAUGHTER  of  Leda, 

I  a  greeting  send, 

The  blameless  courtesy  of  friend  to  friend. 
And  shall  I  further  speak?     What  need  to  tell 
Of  Love  that  Helen  sees  and  feels  too  well  ? 
Alas  !  too  well.     Let  me  the  flame  repress, 
While  unsuspected  hours  our  meetings  bless. 
But  lamely  I  dissemble :  how  conceal 
Fires  which  their  own  bright  tongues  to  all  reveal  ? 
But  if  you  wait — if  you  expect  the  word, 
I  LOVE,  'tis  past  recall,  and  you  have  heard. 
Spare  me,  love-wearied  :  let  a  kindly  face 
Bend  o'er  the  line  that  leaves  me  to  your  grace. 
This  boon  is  great,  that  you  receive  the  prayer, 
Which  gathers  freshening  hope,  because  you  spare. 
Because  you  spare,  I  bless  the  Goddess  kind, 
Who  led  me  here,  and  taught  what  I  should  find. 


114  OVID. 

For  hither  have  I  come  by  her  command, 
Who,  all-victorious,  draws  with  tender  hand. 
I  seek  for  great  rewards :  but  they  are  due, 
And  she,  who  promised  all,  has  given  me  You, 
And  thus  fulfilled  the  compact. 

For  the  prize 

O'er  boundless  seas  I  came,  to  where  arise 
The  Isles  .ZEgean.    She,  complaisant  airs 
Breathed  from  the  skies  in  answer  to  my  prayers. 
The  sea-sprung  Goddess,  who  commands  the  sea, 
Smoothed  all  its  waves,  that  I  might  come  to  thee. 

Love's  flames  I  brought — I  did  not  find  them  here ; 
These  fixed  my  journey — not  the  stormy  year ; 
Nor  chance,  nor  skillful  pilot,  is  the  cause 
Why  Trojan  guest  obeys  the  Spartan  laws. 
Nor  merchant  filled  my  ships  with  silken  bales  : 
My  wealth  is  Love — with  this  the  Trojan  sails. 
Nor  yet  spectator  I  of  Grecian  power  : 
Lord  of  unbounded  wealth,  and  Love  the  Dower. 
But  You  I  seek — by  Venus  led,  I  came, 
Worshiped  by  me  before  I  heard  your  name ; 


OVID.  115 

Clear-lighted  to  my  heart  your  features  shone, 
And,  first  of  women,  you  were  loved  ere  known  ! 

And  do  you  wonder  ?    Has  it  never  been, 
That  Cupid's  bow  has  wounded,  twanged  unseen  t 
So  will  the  Fates — and,  not  to  cross  their  power, 
Hear  what  befell  me  at  my  natal  hour. 

Unborn  I  lingered.    Long  my  mother  bore 
The  ripened  burden  that  oppressed  her  sore ; 
Till,  fever-pulsed,  she  dreamed  that  in  her  lay 
A  blazing  brand,  that  burned  her  life  away ; 
Shuddering  she  rose,  and  groping  'mid  the  night 
Through  the  dim  palace,  stood  in  Priam's  sight ; 
And  told  the  vision.     He,  whom  Gods  inspire, 
Foretold  in  me  the  red  and  baleful  fire 
Cassandra  singa  for  Troy.     But  far  apart 
From  truth.     This  firebrand  is  Paris'  Heart ; 
Incensed  with  love,  its  generous  embers  glow, 
The  wealth  and  hope  of  Troy,  and  not  her  foe. 

There  is  a  nook  within  the  woody  vales 
Of  Middle  Ida,  hid  from  blustering  gales 
By  bosky  laurels  ;  oaks  and  elms  on  high 
Shade  the  hot  noon,  but  not  obscure  the  sky. 


116  OVID. 

Here,  not  the  timid  sheep  disturbs  the  vine, 
Nor  venturous  kid,  nor  pasture-loving  kine, 
So  devious,  dim,  the  path ;  and  here  I  came 
One  summer's  day,  when  all  the  sky  was  flame, 
And  myrtle-shaded  sat,  and  watched  the  wave, 
Whose  languid  ripples  scarce  a  murmur  gave ; 
And  saw  far  off  the  white  and  shining  walls 
Of  rich  imperial  Troy. 

Then  faintly  falls 

The  tread  of  musically-moving  feet, 
Whose  heavenly  rhythms  all  the  glades  repeat, 
For  not  of  mortal  step  ;  and  while  I  feared, 
First  to  my  eyes  swift  Mercury  appeared, 
Herald  of  Goddesses,  the  God  ;  for  him 
Close  followed,  threading  through  the  foliage  dim, 
Minerva,  Juno,  Venus,  stepping  light, 
On  beds  of  Asphodel  and  Crocus  bright. 

Trembling  I  looked,  as  one  who  in  amaze, 
At  midnight  wakes,  when  red  Auroras  blaze. 
But  he :  "Be  not  afraid,  these  leave  the  sky — 
Their  golden  thrones — a  mortal's  skill  to  try, 
In  Parliament  of  Beauty  :  you  are  he, 
O  favored  one !  with  whom  the  choice  shall  be." 


OVID.  117 

mid  I  refuse  ?    He  spoke  the  will  of  Jove, 
id,  heavenly  omen,  straightway  soared  above, 
jfl  to  myself,  my  fainting  sense  grew  strong, 
id  Jove-inspired,  I  conned  the  beauteous  throng, 
jh  worthy  seemed  to  conquer ;  in  the  eyea 
Of  their  fond  judge,  each  merited  the  prize ; 
But  still  the  fairest,  she  who  most  compelled, 
Was  Love's  great  mother. 

Nor  were  gifts  withheld 
By  any — richer  than  all  dreams,  and  these 
But  trifling  earnests  of  the  boundless  fees 
From  her  who  was  to  conquer.      Jove'a  great 

spouse, 

Wide  kingdoms,  and  a  crown  about  my  brows, 
Securely  promised ;  but  Minerva's  prize, 
Statecraft,  and  all  that  in  clear  wisdom  lies. 
Between  the  two  I  paused ;  till  Venus  laughed : 
"  Philosopher  nor  king  the  stream  has  quaffed 
That  now  I  offer  thee.     Those  gifts  refuse, 
That  for  an  instant  you  delay  to  choose. 
Receive  from  me  the  worthiest — her  whose  charmi 
Haste  to  their  home  in  thy  adoring  arms, 
Helen  of  Argos." 


118  OVID. 

Then  she  paused :  the  word 

Ran  echoing  through  my  heart,  and  sweetly  stirred, 
And  loudly,  all  its  pulses ;  which  she  knew, 
For  to  herself  a  cloud  the  Goddess  drew, 
And  vanished,  all  victorious.     Happy  day, 
When  Paris  judged  of  Goddesses,  for  they 
By  that  make  Troy  proud ;  by  that  a  queen 
I  claim  from  golden  Venus. 

You  have  been 

From  that  hour  worshiped :  and,  as  I  love  thee, 
So,  many  Trojan  maidens  sigh  for  me  ; 
Hun  whom  they  long  for,  you  alone  retain : 
Nor  do  kings'  daughters  only  sigh  in  vain, 
But  all  the  Nymphs. 

I  care  not  for  them  all, 
Once  filled  with  hope  of  thee — on  thee  I  call, 
Through  sleepless  nights,  and  when  my  wearied 

eyes 

Close  in  soft  slumbers,  in  my  dreams  you  rise. 
Oh !  if  unseen  you  charm  me,  how  would  you 
Charm  me,  if  by  your  side  ?  Though  far  the  view, 


OVID.  119 

I  burn  with  flames  of  worship.     Why  delay 
To  follow  hope  that  led  the  joyful  way 
To  where  you  are  ?    The  voice  that  called  to  me, 
Hushed  all  the  winds,  and  calmed  the  stormy  sea. 

My  sturdy  axemen  felled  the  Phrygian  pine, 
And  every  tree  that  loves  the  tumbling  brine, 
From  rugged  Gargarus,  crowned  with  woods,  to 

where 

Long  Ida  lifts  her  leafy  head  in  air. 
Then  rose  the  stately  ships ;  through  all  their  length, 
The  mighty  keel,  rib-fastened,  laughed  in  strength, 
But  shapeless  seemed  and  sluggish,  till  at  last, 
Flew  the  white  canvas  from  the  springing  mast. 
Bright  legends  deck  each  pictured  stern,  the  tales 
Of  Gods  grown  loving — she,  who  fanned  the  sails 
That  bore  me  here,  not  absent,  nor  was  he 
Forgot,  who  shoots  Love's  darts. 

Then  to  the  sea 

re  turned  the  prows,  Greece-pointed ;  but  my  sire 
rith  mournful  words  bewailed  my  rash  desire, 
id  prayed,  but  vainly  prayed,  delay.    Then  came 
indra,  weird,  loose-haired,  who  cried :  "A  flame 


120  OVID. 

You  bear  with  you — oh !  whither  do  you  go, 
Thus  ruin-charged  ?    Ah !  reckless  ;  and  you  know 
Naught  of  the  baleful  fires  this  journey  brings  !" 
I  find  the  fires — 'tis  truth  Cassandra  sings — 
But  they  are  Love's  own  flames.  The  favoring  wind 
Has  fanned  the  blaze,  but  Fear  has  dropt  behind. 
Thy  shores  receive  me,  fairest  Nymph ;  thy  lord 
Has  bid  me  sit,  and  nobly,  at  his  board. 
This  flows  from  Fate ;  I  know  the  heavenly  sign, 
And  Jove  decrees  that  Helen's  heart  is  mine. 

Here  have  I  seen  the  heaped-up  wealth  of  Greece, 
The  spoils  of  war,  the  rich  results  of  peace, 
But  idly  passed  them  by.     My  eager  view 
At  first,  and  now,  desires,  and  only,  You. 
Wondering,  I  gazed  at  first — my  wonder  grows, 
My  soul's  rapt  ardor  pause,  nor  languor  knows. 
Such  thrills,  such  joyful  shocks,  my  senses  atirred, 
When  Venus  smiled  on  my  approving  word 
At  the  great  trial — but  had  you  been  there, 
Not  Love's  great  mother  had  been  owned  no  fair. 
For  everywhere  of  thee  the  rumor  blows : 
Thee  far-off  Atlas,  thee  the  Tigris,  knows : 


OVID.  121 

No  Trojan  dame  thy  rival — nor  can  fame 
E'er  speak  of  beauty  but  through  Helen's  name. 
But  though  she  fill  the  earth  with  praise,  'tis  less 
Than  Helen's  self.     Let  him  despair  success, 
Who  hopes  to  sing  thy  just  renown — the  song 
Faints  with  the  burden  that  it  bears  along. 


What  wonder,  then,  the  Grecian  king  admired — 
From  myriad  beauties,  only  thee  desired ; 
Sought  thee  in  rapine  rude,  while  in  the  game 
Your  veilless  beauty  glowed,  nor  dreamed  of  shame  ? 
I  praise  the  theft — but  how,  oh  !  how  restore 
The  matchless  charms  which  in  his  arms  he  bore ! 
I  should  for  ever  hold  such  dear  delight, 
Nor  yield  thee   up   to    Gods,   nor  Death's  dread 

might ; 

My  arms  should  ever  clasp  ;  and  fed  with  bliss, 
Immortal  were  the  look,  the  sigh,  the  kiss. 
Should  Fate  demand,  my  heaven-defying  pride 

ould  cling  to  thee,  though  yielding  all  beside. 

scorned  the  World's  command,  to  gain  your  love, 
The  royal  bounty  of  the  spouse  of  Jove  ; 


r 


122  OVID. 

I  scorned  the  wisdom  that  Minerva  gave — 
Enough  of  wisdom  this,  to  be  your  slave. 
Nor  does  the  choice  repent  me — oft  as  you 
Rise  to  my  fancy,  I  the  choice  renew ; 
Renew  each  rapturous  dream,  and  vow  to  gain 
Her  for  whose  sake  'twere  light  to  bear  all  pain. 

Nor  fear,  0  nobly  born !   your  queenly  state 
Will  aught  diminish,  if  you  share  my  fate. 
Whoever  questions  of  the  Trojan  line, 
Shall  find  the  stars  of  heaven,  and  Jove  divine. 
The  sceptred  Priam,  o'er  the  boundless  plains 
Of  fertile  Asia,  proudly,  safely,  reigns ; 
Lord  of  innumerous  cities,  marches  fair, 
And  temples  worthy  of  the  name  they  bear ; 
But  mightiest,  Troy,  whose  turrets,  pointing  high, 
Rose,  'mid  immortal  music,  to  the  sky ; 
Whose  pouring  crowds  surpass  the  sum  of  men, 
Till  scarce  can  earth  the  mighty  host  sustain. 
Thee  with  warm  welcomes,  and  with  flying  feet, 
Shall  all  the  Trojan  maids  and  mothers  meet ; 
Oft,  when  you  think  of  Greece,  will  you  compare 
With  Trojan  wealth  Achaia's  petty  share. 


OVID.  123 

— But  cease,  my  boastful  heart,  nor  dare  despise 
The  land  that  gave  a  Helen  to  my  eyes ; 
But  still  unworthy,  for  a  richer  earth 
Than  ours  would  scarce  deserve  to  give  her  birth. 
Oh  !  give  this  beauty  every  sweet  delight, 
And  taste  the  sacred  joys  it  claims,  of  right ; 
Fill  pleasure's  goblet  up,  nor  scorn  to  share 
With  me,  because  a  Phrygian  name  I  bear ; 
For  he,  the  foremost  of  the  Phrygian  kings, 
To  Jove  in  heaven,  immortal  nectar  brings ; 
Another  was  Aurora's  spouse  ;  and  he 
Was  Phrygian  too,  whom  Venus  came  to  see, 
And  staid  to  love,  in  Ida. 

And  I  dare, 

Myself  with  Sparta's  king,  thy  spouse,  compare, 
In  courage,  age,  desert.     The  peaceful  night 
Shall  not  be  robbed  from  thee  by  dread  affright 
Of  thine  own  husband's  sire,  before  whose  eyes, 
In  glooms  of  dusk,  his  horrent  victims  rise. 
Pure  is  our  lineage  from  the  bloody  stain 
That  dyed  the  waves  of  all  the  Grecian  main. 


124  OVID. 

— But  shall  these  dreadful  themes  disturb  your 

breast  ? 

All  these  are  nothing — only  make  me  blest. 
I  hope — but  ah  !  how  hopeless  :  in  your  arms 
Another  tastes  the  sweets  of  Helen's  charms ; 
And  sharing  joys  for  which  the  Gods  might  sigh, 
Leaves  me,  in  envious  pain  to  faint  and  die. 

Let  me  recall  my  griefs :  each  evening's  feast 
Finds  me  an  eager  but  an  anxious  guest ; 
And  such  my  jealous  pangs,  no  greater  woe 
Could  I  desire  for  my  severest  foe ; 
Such  I  endure,  when,  rude  as  Scythian  bear, 
Thy  husband  trifles  with  thy  golden  hair, 
Toys  with  thy  fingers,  and,  distasteful  theme, 
Scarce,  in  my  presence,  leaves  me  aught  to  dream. 
Surely,  thy  duty,  not  love's  rapture  true, 
Compels  endurance,  and  an  answer  too. 
— But  let  me  shun  the  all-abhorrent  view, 
And  when  thy  drunken  lord  imprints  a  kiss, 
Hide  from  my  eyes  the  sight  of  wasted  bliss, 
Though  from  my  heart  my  choking  feelings  rise, 
And  all  my  aching  soul  dissolves  in  sighs ; 


OVID.  125 

Yet,  wanton  !  with  my  griefs  your  laughter  grows, 
And  in  my  torture,  still  you  find  repose. 

Nor  wine  allays  the  rage  of  my  desire, 
The  generous  draught  but  adds  a  flame  to  fire ; 
Lest  I  should  see  or  hear,  I  turn  away, 
But  when  you  look  or  speak,  I  must  obey. 
Oh !  say  what  I  shall  do  :  to  see,  is  pain ; 
A  greater  sorrow  'tis  to  gaze  in  vain. 
Ah  !  if  I  could  my  love  conceal  or  kill, 
Then  blest  contentment  all  my  heart  should  fill. 
But  vain  to  hope  such  ending  ;  still  appears 
My  yearning  love,  and  still  I  toss  with  fears. 
Shall  I  keep  silence,  still  you  know  my  grief, 
And  know  that  you  alone  can  bring  relief. 
How  oft,  to  hide  my  tears,  a  feigned  excuse 
Brings  a  short  absence  from  thy  lord's  abuse ; 
How  oft  I  feign  of  ancient  love  a  tale, 
To  hide  my  own,  and  yet  my  own  reveal ; 
Praise  some  fond,  unknown  lover — and  so  well, 
That  only  you  discern  what  I  would  tell. 

Once,  I  remember,  when  the  feast  was  high, 
Your  beauty  doubly  glowed  on  every  eye. 


126  OVID. 

• 

Though  jeweled  robes  your  perfect  form  obscured, 
Still,  through  the  cloud  not  less  the  star  allured. 
Through  wavy  seas  of  dress  appeared  thy  form, 
And  took  my  beating,  raptured  heart  by  storm. 
So  was  I  tranced,  the  golden  cup  I  bore 
Fell  from  my  hand,  and  rolled  along  the  floor. 
You  kissed  your  daughter  then — those  kisses  I 
Snatched  from  her  lips  before  their  soul  could  fly ; 
Then  sang  again  such  songs  as  you  might  ask, 
And  o'er  my  features  drew  a  cautious  mask  ; 
For  such  you  bid  me  wear,  that  none  may  know 
The  cause  of  Helen's  pride  and  Paris'  woe. 

Despairing  all,  and  chafing  at  my  fate, 
I  bribed  the  smiling  nymphs  who  round  you  wait, 
Who  gave  me  naught  of  hope,  but  greater  fears, 
And  cheeked  my  prayers,  and  wondered  at  my  tears. 
They  know  not  Jove's  decrees,  nor  dream  the  fate 
That  waits  thee,  flying  to  a  mightier  state. 
Thee  shall  the  victor  win  by  toilsome  days, 
For  thee  shall  armies  fight  and  cities  blaze ; 
Thy  lot  shall  shame  those  legends  all  have  read, 
Of  how  for  love  the  great  Alcides  bled. 


OVID.  127 

Greater  than  these  shall  be  your  deathless  name, 
Prize  of  my  labors,  mistress  of  my  fame. 
Than  me  the  prize  is  more — my  humbler  share 
Is  but  to  woo  thee  with  a  lover's  prayer. 
O  Honor,  Glory,  Brightest  Star  of  Love, 
Divinest  daughter  of  immortal  Jove ! 
Hence  will  I  bear  thee  to  the  Trojan  shore, 
Or,  here  an  exile,  see  my  home  no  more. 

No  common  wound  deprives  my  soul  of  rest, 
And  keen  the  arrow  that  has  pierced  my  breast. 
True  was  her  dream,  who  saw  from  out  the  sky 
The  Archer  launch  his  shaft,  and  saw  me  die. 
But  you  can  save  me — you  and  only  you  ; 
Love's  mother  promised  this,  and  she  is  true. 
To  you  she  lends  a  ready  ear  to-day — 
Ah  !  fear  to  drive  her  kindly  aid  away. 

Too  long  I  linger — words  have  lost  their  power ; 
Now,  now  the  fates  attend,  'tis  Love's  own  hour. 
Oh!  fear  not  him  whom  fate  has  made  your  spouse, 
A  careless  lord,  nor  mindful  of  his  vows. 
Ah !  simple  Helen,  charming,  rustic  maid, 
Think  you  that  beauty  loves  such  lawful  shade  ? 


128  OVID. 

Oh !  be  not  beautiful — or  let  your  charms 
Receive  their  tribute  in  a  lover's  arms. 
No  other  choice  is  thine.     In  maid  or  wife, 
Reserve  and  Beauty  wage  an  endless  strife. 
How  oft  the  softer  conquers,  let  the  sky 
Home  of  the  gods  and  happy  souls  reply. 
Nor  does  your  lineage  bid  me  hope  in  vain, 
If  Leda's  fire  but  live  in  you  again. 
— Let  others  vainly  hope — if  o'er  the  sea 
You  fly  with  Paris,  leave  their  fate  to  me. 

My  prayers  thy  husband  seconds,  grants  his  aid  ; 
Time,  place,  and  absence,  all  things  smooth  have 

made. 

The  Cretan  realm  demands  his  instant  care, 
And  his  safe  wisdom  has  no  fears  to  spare — 
Oh  !  wondrous  wisdom  !     "  Helen,  I  commend, 
While  absent,  to  thy  dearest  care,  my  friend : 
Spare  naught  to  make  him  happy."     Is  it  so, 
Ungrateful  one,  from  whom  my  torments  flow  ? 
Me  you  defraud,  whose  quick  responsive  soul 
Draws  life  from  thine,  and  yields  to  thy  control. 
— But  should  you  give  that  heartless  man  a  heart, 
To  wake  Love's  fires  there,  would  pass  thy  art. 


OVID.  129 

No,    if  he    prized    thy    heart — thy    arms — thy 

smiles — 

He  would  not  leave  thee  thus  to  others'  wiles. 
"Pis  he  who  tempts — not  I :  and  weak  my  voice, 
When  his  ingratitude  suggests  the  choice. 
When  he  compels,  can  you  advise  delay, 
Or  suffer  time,  unblest,  to  slip  away  ? 
'Tis  he  who  brings  the  lover,  pleads  his  cause  ; 
'Tis  he  who  bids  you  love — obey  his  laws, 
Nor  scorn  the  wisdom  of  thy  spouse  discreet, 
Who  flies — and  leaves  a  lover  at  your  feet ! 

Alone  at  night  I  watch  the  wheeling  Bear ; 

To  Jove  your  chamber  sends  a  lonely  prayer. 

Oh  !  join  the  prayer,  the  vigil :  let  the  joy 

Of  hearts  united,  day  and  night  employ. 

Then  I  will  swear  by  what  you  wish  ;  the  shrine 

Of  ourMear  vows  shall  be  your  heart  and  mine : 

Then  I,  a  present  lover,  all  shall  dare, 

And  you  shall  hear  and  sigh,  and  grant  my  prayer, 

Consent  to  flight,  nor  once  of  danger  dream, 

While  yet  my  lips  keep  up  the  ardent  theme. 


130  OVID. 

But  if  you  fear,  let  not  examples  fail, 
And  such  as  might  o'er  Dian's  self  prevail. 
.ZEgides,  first,  and  next  thy  brothers  twain, 
Wooed  thus  their  brides,  nor  was  the  wooing  vain. 
Than  these,  no  instance  nearer  to  thine  eyes, 
For  me  reserved  the  fourth,  most  beauteous  prize. 
Now  wait  my  men,  now  swell  the  Trojan  sails, 
Short  be  our  path  before  the  prospering  gales ; 
Through  the  rich  cities  of  the  Asian  plain, 
Thyself,  a  queen,  full  honors  shall  obtain. 
Thee  shall  the  wondering  crowd  a  Goddess  call, 
Before  thy  steps  shall  fairest  matrons  fall ; 
Flames,  incense-bearing,  shall  illume  thy  road, 
And  kings  shall  kiss  the  spot  thy  feet  have  trod. 

Alas !    for  me,  who  only  tell  a  part 

Of  what  shall  happen ;  thy  all-conquering  heart 

Shall  hasten  more  events  than  Trojan  love, 

And  fast  the  Fates  upon  thy  path  shall  move. 

But  fear  thou  not,  lest  cruel  wars  pursue — 

Lest  Greece  should  swear  revenge,  and  prove  too 

true. 
What  dame  of  all  the  dames  that  e'er  have  fled, 

Has  war  pursued,  or  who  for  such  has  bled  ? 


OVID.  131 

Review  the  names,  the  histories  of  the  fair, 
And  doubt  if  you  can  doubt  their  lot  to  share ! 
'Tis  true,  they  feared  at  first ;  but  fear  was  all — 
No  danger  followed,  nor  did  death  appall. 
And  she  who  dreaded  once  lest  earth  should  rise, 
Now  fears  no  storm  outside  her  lover's  eyes. 

But  grant  the  worst — if  war  assail  our  path, 
Let  them  beware  who  rouse  the  archers'  wrath. 
My  men  are  bold,  my  weapons  true  ;  the  land 
That  bore  me,  scorns  to  fear  a  foe's  command. 
Strong  may  thy  husband  be,  but  not  to  one 
Is  strength  confined.     No  combat  will  I  shun, 
Or  now,  or  ever,  with  his  arms ;  for  I, 
Scarce  from  my  cradle  stept,  feared  not  to  die. 
In  every  contest  of  the  youth  I  vied, 
And  countless  triumphs  fed  my  martial  pride, 
Nor  think  that  I,  whom  all  the  youth  attend, 
Could  not  alone  thy  sacred  cause  defend. 
Point  but  the  man,  the  mark  ;  my  lusty  bow 
Shall  bring  the  boast  of  Grecian  armies  low. 
Is  such  thy  husband's  arm — is  such  his  glance — 
Is  he  such  warrior,  wields  he  thus  his  lance  ? 


132  OVID. 

But  grant  him  this,  and  then  I  dare  deride : 
I  fight  with  mighty  Hector  at  my  side. 
He  worth  innumerous  soldiers :  pride  of  war : 
Amid  the  bloody  ranks  a  blazing  star. 

And  you  are  worth  the  contest ;  let  the  blare 
Of  angry  trumpets  fill  the  reddening  air ; 
Let  battle's  tempests  rise  ;  if  risen  for  thee, 
What  pains  shall  gauge  the  price  of  victory  ? 
Should  all  the  earth  contend  for  thee,  thy  name 
Shall  live  illustrious  in  eternal  fame. 
Faint  not  with  timid  fear ;  the  Gods  obey, 
Who  prosperous  smiling,  call  thee  hence  away. 
Pledge  me  thy  faith,  and  fill  the  measure  up 
With  thy  dear  hand,  of  joy,  and  life,  and  hope. 


OVID. 


133 


HELENA  AD    PARIDEM 


SINCE  I  thy  vows  profane  have  rashly  read, 

Pride  prompts  to  answer,  virtue  not  denies. 
You,  whom  we  nobly  have  received,  have  said 

The  words  that  ne'er  should  reach  a  matron's  eyes. 
Was  it  for  this  the  favoring  winds  arose, 

And  sped  your  vessel  to  the  Grecian  shore, 
That  though  from  land  of  strangers  and  of  foes, 

We  wrote  a  welcome  on  our  palace  door  ? 

Was  it  for  this,  you  words  of  insult  bore  ? 

How  have  you  come — as  enemy  or  friend  ? 

Perhaps  when  this,  my  just  complaint,  you  read, 
Ah !  rustic,  you  will  say,  who  needs  defend 

Her  life,  so  chastely  pure  in  thought  and  deed ! 
But  if  I  do  not  sigh  with  love-sad  grace, 

And  if  I  do  not  gloom  with  knitted  brow, 
Still  is  my  fame  as  scarless  as  my  face ; 

And  no  such  man  as  thou  has  cause  to  show, 

How  I  am  less  unsoiled  than  mountain  snow. 


134  OVID. 

So  more  I  wonder  that  in  me  you  find, 
Or  think  you  find,  a  plea  for  such  desire. 

Snatched  once  from  home,  you  fancy  that  my  mind 
Dwells  fondly  on  the  theme  of  lawless  fire : 

It  makes  the  crime,  if  one  but  yield  the  will, 
But  crimeless  I,  who  all  unwilling  proved ; 

Nor  further  fruit  had  he  of  all  his  skill, 

Whose  arts  heroic  showed  how  well  he  loved, 
Than  to  convey  me  back,  unhurt,  unmoved. 

For  though  his  wanton  ardor  reft  the  kiss 
I  never  gave,  it  gained  him  naught  beside. 

But  shameless  Trojan,  not  content  with  -this, 
How  worse  than  his  your  all-demanding  pride  ! 

For  Theseus  spared  to  urge,  when  once  the  flame 
Of  maiden  honor  flashed  across  his  sight ; 

But  glows  your  heart  with  no  ingenuous  shame, 
Nor  will  you  cease  to  call  me  from  the  height 
To  that  wild  sea  whose  shores  are  tears  and  night. 

Call  me  not  angry,  for  our  sex  is  kind 

To  lovers'  madness — but  we  need  be  wise, 

And  she  that's  lured  by  Love's  pretense,  is  blind  ; 
I  doubt  your  love,  but  not  your  praise  ;  my  eyes 


OVID.  135 

Tell  me  that  I  am  fair  :  I  need  not  you 

To  tell  me  this.    But  women  oft  have  erred 

By  flattery  such  as  yours,  and  not  more  true ; 
I  might  have  wronged,  to  judge  ere  I  had  heard — 
Now  I  convict  you,  by  your  every  word. 

But  others  sin,  and  matron  fame  is  rare  : 

— Is  this  a  cause  that  Helen's  fame  should  die  ? 

And  from  my  mother's  error,  do  you  dare 
To  urge  my  feet  from  paths  of  chastity  ? 

Ah  !  hapless  mother ;  Nature  then  withdrew 
Her  kindly  aid  when  royal  lover  came, 

Her  powers  assist  the  god  who  stoops  to  sue  ; 
And  if  in  form  of  swan  he  hides  his  flame, 
The  maid,  deceived  and  captured,  who  shall  blame  ? 

But  should  I  wander,  'tis  in  clearest  light, 

Nor  aught  of  ignorance  should  shade  the  deed ; 

My  mother  sank  before  Jove's  wily  might  : 
But  could  my  fault  a  godlike*tempter  plead  ? 


136  OVID. 

Though  well  you  boast  of  noble  name  and  race, 
The  race  from  which  I  came  is  more  sublime : 

The  blood  of  kings  in  long-forgotten  days, 
Pelops  and  Tyndarus,  in  later  time, 
And  then  great  Jove  and  Leda's  hallowed  crime. 

For  you,  'twere  better  that  convenient  shade 
Should  drape  the  foundings  of  your  boasted  state  ; 

If  ere  Laomedon  the  record  fade, 

Naught  will  be  missed  of  all  you  would  relate ; 

And  though  thy  Troy  be  strong  and  rich  and  wide, 
Not  less  a  crown  does  rugged  Sparta  wear; 

While  you  in  wealth  barbaric  rest  your  pride, 
We  boast  of  men  who  well  the  state  can  bear, 
Can  suffer  patiently,  and  nobly  dare. 

But  crowning  arguments,  the  gifts  you  bring, 
And  which  you  think  a  goddess  well  might  snare ; 

And  ah  !  how  sweetly  you  their  praises  sing : 
But  should  I  e'er  your  guilty  hazards  share, 

'Twere  you  should  conquer ;  gifts  are  naught  beside 
The  faint  and  dull  expression  of  the  man ; 

And  I  would  either  in  clear  fame  abide, 
Or  follow  thee,  as  only  woman  can, 
Shorn  of  thy  riches  ;  sport  of  fortune's  ban. 


OVID.  137 

Yet  gifts  are  grateful,  which  the  givers  make 

Most  precious  by  their  giving  :  we  adore 
The  love  they  show,  not  them.    The  gift  may  take 

Love's  fragrance,  and  it  cannot  well  be  more. 
That  me  you  love  is  all :  that  loving  me, 

You  scorned  the  perils  of  Cassandra's  dream, 
And  dared  the  boundless  and  the  angry  sea ; 

Compared  to  this,  what  gifts  could  I  esteem  ? 

Or  how,  preferring  those,    should  I  a  woman 
seem? 

But  rashly  why  recall  the  festal  hour, 

Whose  blushing  memories  I  would  fain  conceal  ? 
Ah  !  ardent  eyes,  whose  practised,  fatal  power 

Implants  those  wounds  their  lord  alone  can  heal. 
Then  would  you  sometimes  sigh,  and  when  the 
health 

Went  round,  you  drank  in  cups  my  lips  had 

kissed ; 
And  oft  your  fingers  spoke  in  silent  stealth ; 

And  oft  your  eye-lids,  eloquent  in  mist 

Of  sacred  tears,  your  love  might  well  assist. 


138  OVID. 

And  then,  for  fear  my  lord  should  all  perceive, 
I  paled  the  blush,  that  redly  strove  to  rise, 

But  softly  spoke  unheard,  "  To  grant  him  leave 
The  least,  would  bring  such  storm  as  never  dies, 

For  he  would  stop  at  nothing."    I  was  right, 
But  yet  with  playful  finger  wrote  in  wine, 

That  on  the  table  lay  within  your  sight, 
A  sparkling  AMO  ;  yet  the  fault  was  thine, 
If  you  in  earnest  read  such  trifling  sign. 

But,  ah !  alas  !  for  me,  that  I  should  teach, 
My  all  too  cunning  tempter  what  to  say ; 

He  who  would  lead  my  steps  to  err,  would  reach 
My  foolish  heart  in  some  such  flattering  way : 

Thine  is  the  charm  of  manhood's  beauty  too, 
No  maiden's  heart  toward  thee  could  coldly  beat : 

Choose  then  the  fairest — innocently  woo : 
I  will  resign  thee,  and  with  chaste  deceit 
Your  praises  calmly  to  your  bride  repeat. 

Learn  then  from  me,  who  curbs  desire  is  wise, 
And  learn  how  great  the  virtue  to  abstain ; 

And  do  you  think  that  you  alone  have  eyes? 
Have  others  not  desired  what  you  would  gain? 


OVID. 


139 


You  see  no  clearer,  but  you  bolder  dare  ; 

Nor  have  you  more  of  heart,  but  less  of  shame. 
Why  came  you  not  on  wings  of  eastern  air 

When  all  the  kings  for  me,  a  maiden,  came  ? 

I  would  have  chosen  thee,  then,  nor  dreamed  of 
blame. 

This  will  my  husband  pardon,  when  I  say, 
Had  I  seen  thee,  I  ne'er  had  chosen  him  ; 

But  now  you  tardy  come  to  take  away 

His  joys,  long  dowered,  and  your  hope  is  dim; 

And  what  you  seek,  another  holds  ;  but  I, 
Who  here  am  chained  to  Menelaus'  side, 

Let  me  conceal  from  thee  how  oft  I  sigh 
That  I  am  not  in  Troy,  thy  blameless  bride, 
Where  in  deep  peace  I  might  with  thee  abide. 


Cease  then,  I  pray,  to  rend  this  tender  breast, 
Nor  harm  me,  helpless,.  wThom  you  say  you  love  ; 

Oh !  let  my  state,  as  fixed  by  Fortune,  rest, 
Nor  thou  a  harsh  and  shameless  victor  prove. 


140  OVID. 

But  Venus  promised  me ;  in  Ida's  vales 

Three  sliming  stars  of  heaven  before  thee  glowed, 

But  Juno's  power,  or  Pallas'  wisdom,  pales 
Before  her  glittering  wiles,  who  Helen  showed 
And  taught  of  conquering  love  the  easy  road. 

Shall  I  believe  that  thus  celestials  deign 

Confess  a  mortal  than  themselves  more  wise-  ? 

But  grant  it  true :  the  rest  you  surely  feign, 
That  I  was  promised  as  the  fairest  prize. 

My  charms  are  less  than  this,  that  in  the  mind 
Of  goddess  I  should  be  of  gifts-  the  best  ; 

Content  be  she  who  well  hath  pleased  her  kind ; 
I  leave  to  Venus'  self  to  please  the  rest, 
Nor  let  her,  false  as  fair,  my  peace  molest. 

But,  no  ;  I  claim  a  woman's  right  to  change  : 
I  trust  your  story,  I  accept  the  praise, 

Nor  wonder  thou,  my  former  doubt  so  strange : 
Faith  slowly  grows — a  plant  of  many  days — 

In  all  events  of  moment :  but  when  grown, 
It  lives  securely.     I  delight  to  please 

The  laughter-loving  Venus,  and  I  own 
That  I  commend  whome'er  in  Helen  sees 
Rewards  that  mock  the  gifts  of  goddesses. 


OVID.  141 

And  am  I  wisdom  more  than  Pallas  bore, 
A  royal  kingdom  more  than  Juno  held 

With  outstretched  arm,  when  tempting  ?     I  were 

more 
Than  mortal,  obdurate,  if  then  I  steeled 

My  breast  against  your  love.     Not  iron  I — 
No  stubborn  gale  am  I,  from  winter  land ; 

But  can  I  love,  with  whom  I  cannot  fly  ? 

Of  what  avail,  to  plough  the  salt  sea's  strand, 
Or  nurse  a  hope  against  the  Fates*  command  ? 

*k 

Nor  versed  am  I  in  Love's  sweet  wiles :  the  art — 
Be  Gods  my  witnesses — to  thus  betray 

My  lord,  I  ne'er  have  learned :  a  novel  part 
Is  this,  which  now,  with  silent  pen,  I  play. 

Oh !  happy  they  more  skilled ;  for  innocence 
Will  ever  find  in  guilt  a  thorny  road ; 

Hedged  in  with  spectres  that  confound  the  sense. 
In  every  eye  some  evil  I  forbode, 
And  rumor  follows  fast  with  growing  load. 

The  whispers  of  the  curious  crowd  I  hear  ; 

My  very  servants  babble  to  the  air ; 
But  you  dissemble — he  can  jest  at  fear 

To  whom  my  fall  immortal  fame  would  bear. 


142  _  OVID. 

Oh !  spare  my  name — for  left  behind  my  lord, 
Whom  fateful  causes  call  so  far  away, 

I  mourn  so  slight  was  my  dissuading  word, 
When  at  the  vessel's  side  I  cried :  "  Oh !  stay, 
Or  let  return  be  balked  by  no  delay." 

He  joyful  kissed  me.     "  Dearest,  I  commend 

To  you  the  state,  the  home,  the  Trojan  guest." 
I  hid  a  smile,  but  quick  replied :  "I  lend 

A  ready  ear,  my  lord,  to  your  request." 
Now  on  the  Cretan  sea  he  spreads  his  sails, 

But  therefore  not  too  rashly  shall  you  dare ; 
Though  he  be  absent,  still  his  watch  prevails ; 

To  him  his  trusty  spies  our  actions  bear, 

THE  ARMS  ARE  LONG  THAT  KINGS  ARE  WONT  TO  WEAK. 

He  hath  been  warned  betimes — he  justly  fears. 

Such  praise  as  thine  would  warn  a  duller  soul ; 
And  should  my  beauty  lead  to  shame  and  tears, 

He  would  aver  that  he  had  known  the  whole. 
But  still  he  trusts.     In  danger,  left  behind, 

Not  blindness — not  neglect — has  left  me  here : 
My  fame,  my  life,  convince  that  he  shall  find 

His  Helen's  honor,  as  her  beauty,  clear — 

And  shall  I  trifle  with  this  heart  sincere  ? 


OVID.  143 

But,  ah !  my  love  is  stronger  than  my  will, 
And  holds  the  gates  of  my  divided  breast. 

Why  is  my  lord  away — why  night  so  still  ? 
And  why  beneath  this  roof  does  Paris  rest  ? 

Why  does  thy  pleading  form  possess  my  mind, 
As  bright  and  fair  as  ever  woman  won  ? 

All  things  invite,  compel  me  to  be  kind. 
What  fear  delays  that  I  should  be  undone, 
Or  why  so  tardy  you — and  I  alone  ? 

'Tis  yours  to  drive  away  my  rustic  fear, 
With  loving  violence  to  storm  my  heart ; 

Thus  making  happy  whom  you  hold  most  dear, 
And  gaining  all,  by  conquering  but  a  part. 

Else  must  you  quench  and  kill  the  new-born  fire  : 
A  little  water  quenches  recent  flame — 

Nor  couple  thanks  of  guest  with  such  desire, 
As,  fraught  with  tragic  woe,  with  Jason  came 
To  fair  Hypsipyle,  of  mournful  fame. 

Where  is  JEnone — whom  you  loved  so  long, 
And  left  to  languish  in  th'  Idean  vale? 

Ah  !  faithless  lover :  I  should  do  you  wrong, 
Could  I  not  tell  of  all  your  life  the  tale. 


144  OVID. 

It  says  that  constant  you  can  never  be, 

Though  much  you  vow.   But  now  the  winds  arise, 

And  now  your  comrades  call  you  to  the  sea  : 
Leave,  then,  the  joys  that  mock  your  eager  eyes, 
Nor  think  to  capture  me  with  worn-out  sighs. 

I  wish  it  not,  that  through  the  listening  land 
Swift-flying  Fame  should  tell  of  my  disgrace  : 

Before  the  mocking  world  shall  Helen  stand, 
Proclaimed  as  false  in  heart  as  fair  in  face  ? 

What  would  thy  father,  what  thy  mother,  say — 
And  all  the  Trojans  ?    Could  you  hope  me  true  ? 

You  who  persuade  my  faltering  feet  to  stray — 
Shall  I  be  ever  faithful  liege — but  you 
Retain  the  open  path — the  lawless  view  ! 

Whatever  stranger  walks  the  streets  of  Troy, 
Would  be  to  thee  a  source  of  anxious  dread, 

And  oft  would  you  the  captious  threat  employ, 
Lest  I  but  follow  where  you  oft  have  led  ; 

At  once  the  author  and  the  judge  of  crime. 
— Let  me  escape  the  sentence  and  the  snare, 

The  boasted  riches  of  your  Trojan  clime, 
The  golden  presents  that  your  matrons  bear, 
To  deck  the  shame  that  they  would  fear  to  share ! 


OVID.  145 

Oh !  spare  me,  wealth-fatigued.     Of  small  esteem 
Are  power,  riches — me  they  cannot  move  ; 

But  home-sick,  weary,  by  Scamander's  stream, 
Oh !  who  would  bring  to  me  a  heart-sprung  love  ? 

Full  old — full  oft-repeated — are  the  tales 
Of  woman  lured  to  lay  her  virtue  by  ; 

— Behold  yon  barks  that  drive  with  shattered  sails  ; 
By  zephyrs  fanned,  beneath  a  peaceful  sky, 
They  left  the  port — for  shipwreck  !   And  shall  I  ? 


All  nature  warns  me.     In  the  burning  brand 

Thy  mother  dreamed  she  bore,  in  bearing  thee, 
I  read  the  fateful,  ominous  command, 

That  I  a  Trojan's  lawless  fire  should  flee. 
I  fear  Cassandra's  dream.     And  more  I  fear, 

Because  the  goddess  whom  you  judged  the  prize, 
Has  brought  the  dreadful  hate  of  Juno  here. 

Now  blood-stained  spears  are  crossed  before  my 
eyes, 

And  hostile  swords  against  our  love  arise. 


146  OVID. 

Oh !  can  you  dream  my  lord  will  tamely  bear, 
Or  that  his  brother  will  consent  to  shame  ? 

Though  well  you  boast,  and  martial  aspect  wear, 
From  Mars'  grim  spoils  has  never  sprung  thy 
fame. 

Let  heroes  war  :  do  you  but  only  love. 

Let  Hector  fight  for  us ;  whom  most  we  praise. 

In  other  combats,  you  will  worthier  prove — 
Dear  strife  of  love,  in  which  victorious  bays 
Are  won  without  the  loss  of  peaceful  days. 

Now  should  I  tell  you  of  the  place  and  hour 
Where  they  might  meet  who  burn  with  love's 
own  fire, 

Then  should  I  trust  too  much  to  lawless  power : 
Far  off  are  you  from  what  you  most  desire ! 

Yet  not,  too  hasty,  chide  a  safe  delay : 
This  letter,  conscious  of  my  roving  mind, 

Assists  to  flight.  To-night  my  maids  will  say 
To  you,  "To-morrow,  Helen  will  be  kind," 
And  trust  me — I'll  not  say  that  they  are  blind ! 


LOVE'S    FINDING.  147 


LOVE'S    FINDING- 


THERE  came  a  voice  to  me, 

One  Summer's  day,  that  said :  Go  forth,  and  see 

The  Daughters  of  the  Earth,  for  they  are  fair, 

And  she  who,  yet  unknown,  thy  lot  shall  share, 

Unknowing,  looks  for  thee. 

The  Earth  is  full  of  beauty  everywhere — 

The  hills,  the  clouds,  the  streams, 

All  blend  within  thy  happy  dreams  ; 

Till  now,  they  satisfy  thy  soul, 

Till  now,  they  seem  of  life  the  whole, 

And  thou  hast  said,  What  more  do  I  require  ? 

Lo,  from  this  hour,  I  wake  a  new  desire ! 

Yet,  had  I  played 

Among  the  flowers  with  many  a  little  maid, 

Our  merriment  and  fun 

Commencing  with  the  sun, 

Ceased  not,  till  evening  brought  unwilling  sleep. 

Had  I  the  boyish  record  failed  to  keep 


148  LOVE'S    FINDING. 

Of  stolen  kisses — stolen,  when  I  might 

As  well  have  snatched  them  in  the  noonday  light, 

Or  published  them  to  all — so  meaningless, 

So  harmless,  jocund,  void  of  all  excess, 

Free  of  all  consequence, 

The  very  heart  of  youthful  innocence. 

But  why 

The  altered  look,  demeanor  wistful,  shy, 

Of  those  who  lately  romped  upon  the  lawn, 

And  tossed  the  ball,  and  chased  the  birds  at  dawn, 

With  me :  what  veil  was  thrown, 

So  strangely  sudden,  o'er  what  I  had  known, 

Obscuring,  changing  every  feature? 

And  I,  too,  had  become  another  creature, 

And  nursed  a  pride  that  came,  I  knew  not  whence, 

And  seemed  a  new,  another  sense. 

I  seemed  to  fear 

Lest  any  one  should  come  too  near, 

And  spy  defect  in  what  was  not  yet  grown  ; 

Safer  to  be  alone, 

Safer  to  nurse  unseen  the  kindling  spark 

Of  what,  I  knew  not ;  hidden  yet  in  dark, 


LOVE'S    FINDING.  149 

Concealed  as  well  from  me,  but  still  possessed 

I  knew,  because  it  gave  no  rest, 

But  ever  burned,  uneasy,  in  my  breast. 

As  in  a  cloud  I  moved, 

Beyond  whose  folding  mists  the  voice  beloved 

Was  heard,  that  called  me  on 

To  shining  realms  of  sun, 

Unseen,  but  heralded  by  shafts  of  light, 

Making  all  the  heavens  bright. 

Ah  !  sweet  uncertainty — the  trembling  air, 

Whose  waves  the  harp's  vibrations  bear, 

Moves  not  more  blissfully, 

Nor  more  unconsciously, 

Of  its  sweet  burden,  than  my  soul's  desire, 

Which  swayed  me  hither,  thither,  ever  nigher 

The  unknown  place  where  I  would  be, 

The  glimmering  shore  of  mystic  sea, 

On  which  the  waves  of  love  sighed  tranquilly. 

And  then  she  came, 

Who  gave  my  thought  a  name  ; 

No  matter  how,  or  when,  or  where, 

Her  presence  answered  my  soul's  prayer  ; 


150  LOVE'S    FINDING. 

Whether  in  moonlight  beams  arrayed, 
First  dawned  upon  my  sight  the  maid, 
On  hill,  by  fountain,  or  in  grove, 
Or  on  some  careless  summer  rove, 
Up  the  green  valleys  where  the  gleam, 

0  fair  Connecticut !  of  thy  abundant  stream, 
Makes  all  the  landscape  glad  ;  or  haply  met 
On  giant  mountain,  firmly  set 

Deep  in  the  humble  earth,  whose  lordly  peak 

Climbs  skyward — but  can  aught  more  sadly  speak 

The  barrenness  of  solitude  ? 

Such  of  New  Hampshire's  Kings,  the  mood. 

Or  whether  met  in  scene  of  mirth, 

Keeping  time  with  joyous  bound, 

While  the  happy  earth 

Underneath  the  midnight  stars  went  round ; 

Or  in  a  garden,  where  the  lily  and  rose, 

All  summer  swaying  to  each  breeze  that  blows, 

Show  her  sweet  skill,  who  thus  prolongs 

The  time  of  flowers,  birds,  and  songs. 

But  where  she  lingered,  there 

1  hastened  my  allegiance  to  declare ; 


LOVERS    FINDING.  151 

>ut  sudden,  paused :  with  quick  and  sharp  distress, 
There  rose  in  me  the  sense  of  deep  unworthiness, 

be  to  her  what  I  would  be  ; 
Tor  could  I  to  myself  confess 

lat  I  was  what  she  wished  to  see. 
Such  hold  hath  undeserving  pride  ! 
It  seemed  that  by  some  happy  tide, 
The  better  part  of  life  had  floated  to  my  side  ; 
ret  what  I  had  been,  shrank  from  laying  claim 
"o  that  bright  form,  whose  stainless  fame 
it  all  myself,  and  all  my  life,  to  shame. 

Then,  while  dismay 

Held  o'er  my  conscious  soul  such  troubled  sway, 

More  fair  she  seemed,  and  still  more  fair, 

As  more  despairing  grew  Despair. 

The  world  had  hailed  her  beautiful :  to  me 

Appeared  what  others  did  not  see  : 

Within  her  face  all  my  life's  hope, 

Of  all  my  powers  and  thoughts  the  scope ; 

The  measure  of  my  dreams  ;  the  goal 

"Whither,  heavenward,  ran  my  soul. 

In  her  eyes'  kindliness, 

Other  saw  friendliness ; 


152 


But  I,  ineffable  society, 

Promise  of  joy  without  satiety, 

Sympathy  without  abound, 

And  tenderness  with  passion  crowned  ; 

Though  not  yet  mine, 

No  other  monarch  should  she  ever  own  : 

Should  not  our  lives  combine, 

Each  were  eternally  alone. 

Then  to  myself  my  mocking  heart  did  say, 

Fly  swiftly,  and  forever,  far  away 

From  her  who  humbles  thus  thy  worth. 

What,  is  she  not  of  human  birth, 

And  fed  and  reared  as  thou  ? 

To  man  should  woman  bow, 

As  he  will  see  who  will  but  look 

Abroad  on  Nature's  ample  book  : 

Upward,  downward,  everywhere — 

Man  is  no  exception  there. 

Use  brief  empire  as  she  will, 

Woman  is  the  lesser,  still ; 

And  if  thy  dream  lead  thee  astray, 

Humbly  woman  to  obey, 


LOVE'S    FINDING.  163 

Better  to  wake  :  though  for  a  season, 
Waking  to  thy  manhood's  reason 
Fill  thee  with  sorrows  and  with  pain, 
Soon  will  strength  return  again. 
Happy  he  who  thus  is  freed 
From  humbling  and  tormenting  need. 

There  came  a  better  moment,  when 

I  answered  to  this  voice  again. 

Nature's  true  promptings  these,  that  stir 

All  my  soul  to  worship  her. 

Her  volume,  everywhere  outspread, 

Says  now  what  it  hath  always  said — 

Worship  goodness,  truth,  and  beauty, 

Pride  should  follow  after  duty. 

Though  lesser  sinewed,  Woman  is  my  mate — 

Or  more,  in  all  that  makes  humanity's  estate. 

Sweet  prompter  of  noble  deeds,  she  ever  has  brought 

The  better  complement  of  human  thought. 

That  one  sweet  soul  most  humbly  I  adore, 

Makes  me  not  less  than  man,  but  more. 

So  will  I  love  and  worship,  nor  shall  shame 

Falsely  speak  to  me  of  blame. 


154  LOVE'S   FINDING. 

Then  clear  my  pathway  seemed,  and  I 

Hastened  to  her  side  to  fly, 

And  tell  her  all,  with  word  sincere, 

Such  as  she  could  not  choose  but  hear, 

Even  if  hearing  barred  consent. 

Thus  my  passion  outward  went 

To  her;  boundless  waves  of  feeling, 

All  myself  concealing 

In  their  mighty  flow — 

Such  as,  if  maiden  do  but  know, 

Or  understand  in  thousandth  part, 

Force  the  gateway  of  her  heart ; 

If,  of  a  thousand  passionate  words  thus  spoken, 

One  but  welcome  enter 

To  the  guarded  centre 

Of  her  heart,  then  every  guard  is  broken ! 

— Was  this  a  dream,  that  she  did  condescend 

Her  being  with  my  own  to  blend, 

And  make  me  master  of  her  soul, 

Till  now  by  maidenly  control 

Safe  tutored,  hid  from  every  eye, 

And  most  of  all,  when  I  was  by  ? 


LOVE'S     FINDING. 


155 


Oh !  sweetest  joy  that  lover  meets, 

The  vanishing  of  love's  deceits  ; 

Of  veils  the  maiden  subtly  wears, 

When,  ere  accepted,  he  appears 

Half  foe,  half  friend :  they  say,  Beware, 

Much  must  thou  overcome  to  enter  here  ; 

The  task  is  great,  but  great  beyond  compare 

The  prize,  if  Beauty  take  thee  to  her  sphere  ! 

Doubly,  trebly,  is  he  thwarted — 

She  smiles  on  others,  strangely  looks  on  him  : 

Often  has  he  started, 

Fearing  lest  he  be  the  sport  of  mocking  whim, 

Till  some  sign  assures  him ;  then  again, 

Cared  for  least  he  seems  of  all  the  world, 

A  moment  raised  by  fancy  vain, 

Then  back  to  darkness  hurled. 

Such  moods  hath  love  accepted,  banished. 

Veil  and  subtlety  have  vanished  : 

Kindly,  under  love's  clear  sun, 

Maiden  owns  that  she  is  won. 


0  vision  sweet ! 

How  often  do  my  thoughts  repeat 


156  LOVE'S     FINDING. 

What  thought  can  never  reach,  or  word  express, 

That  untold  loveliness 

Reflected  on  the  heart  that  sees 

In  other  heart  its  happy  destinies ! 

Does  she,  who  thus  is  mirrored,  know 

How  her  reflected  graces  glow 

Upon  the  soul  of  him  who  sees  in  her 

The  mystic  charms  that  all  his  being  stir  ? 

Then  would  she  ever  soar  above 

The  frailties,  weaknesses,  that  others  move, 

And  live  in  that  celestial  air, 

Whither  ascends  of  passionate  love  the  prayer ; 

Alas  !  mistaking  or  despising  Love, 

How  oft  are  possible  seraphs  kept  from  rising  there ! 

Thus  much  written,  when  I  came 
To  where  she  sat,  for  praise  or  blame, 
Whatever  might  my  lines  deserve ;  but  she 
Heard  them  through,  then  said  to  me, 
All  is  nothing  that  you  write. 
Pen,  though  fed  by  morning  light, 
May  glorify  a  maid  or  man, 
But  picture  love  it  never  can. 


LOVE'S   FINDING.  157 

Needs  it  no  apology, 

No  praise  we  need  to  love  it  by ; 

And  those  who  know  it,  know  it  well,  without 

Those  passionate  tints  that  make  the  careless  doubt, 

Whom  you  will  never  teach.     Hope  thou  before, 

That  moles  will  to  the  upper  heaven  soar ! 


158  TEDIUM     VIT.E. 


TEDIUM  VIT.E. 


I. 

TO-NIGHT  I  hear  the  sad  familiar  strain 
That  all  the  sorrowing  ages  join  to  sing ; 

Though  wine  and  mirth  may  banish  it,  again 
It  creeps  upon  us,  forced  to  listening. 

n. 

Such  strains  our  happy  childhood  never  heard, 
Attuned  to  chords  whose  only  breath  was  joy ; 

Or  if  by  ruder,  harsher  impulse  stirred, 
The  sorrow  was  but  wonder  to  the  boy. 

m. 

The  hour  delayed,  must  come.     Reluctant  doubt, 
If  Pleasure's  form  be  not  her  ghost  instead, 

Must  yield  to  certainty ;  henceforth,  without 
The  dear  illusion,  sadly  must  proceed 


TEDIUM      VIT^E. 


159 


IV. 

>ur  shortening  days ;  and  never  more  returns 
The  bloom,  the  fragrance,  or  the  flush  of  life ; 
id  if  Ambition's  fire  still  ardent  burns, 
Ah !  what  avails  the  fierce  and  dusty  strife 

v. 

Through  which  it  lights  our  pathway?  What  is  fame, 

Or  honor,  flattery,  wealth,  estate,  or  praise, 
'o  blissful  hours,  when,  innocent  of  blame, 
Kind  o'er  us  smiled  the  wondrous,  long-drawn 
days? 

VI. 

;h  day  a  blessed  mystery.     The  sun, 
Fresh  sprung,  made  consecrate  the  golden  East, 
And  long  before  his  westering  course  was  run, 
The  lingering  day  had  been  an  endless  feast. 

VII. 

Deep  hid  in  meadow-grass  we  conned  the  sky  ; 

The  boblink  warbled  o'er  us  as  we  lay  ; 
And,  murmuring  pleasant  bass,  the  brook  ran  by, 

And  o'er  the  pebbles  sang  its  life  away. 


160  TEDIUM     VIT&. 

VIII. 

How  overflowed  with  happiness  the  hours, 

When  free  of  thought,  as  waves  that  lap  the  shore, 

We  sought  in  woodland  glens  the  dewy  flowers, 
Or  home  a  wealth  of  ripened  blueberries  bore. 

IX. 

Or  wrapped  in  pleasant  fancies,  which  we  knew 

In  naught,  except  without  them,  lonesome  we  ; 
We  crowned  the  little  maids  with  fealty  due, 

And  hailed  them  queens,  beneath  the  chestnut 
tree. 

x. 

All  friends  were  kind,  all  love  was  true,  and  most 
The  love  that  stirred  and  woke  one  happy  day, 

And  bore  us  to  a  warm  and  fragrant  coast, 

On  strong,  swift  wings,  that  knew  not  of  delay. 

XI. 

And  there  we  found  the  crowning  joy ;  to  this 
Was  all  life  shaped,  and  this  the  perfect  end ; 

And  Life  and  Love  united  in  the  kiss, 

Where  all  long-past,  forerunning  joys  did  blend 


TEDIUM     VIT-<E.  161 

XII. 

And  there  should  life  have  ended.    What,  the  rest, 
But  once  exhausted  joy — increasing  pain? 

If  from  the  banquet-board  we  take  the  best, 
Why  try  the  waning,  narrowing  choice  again  ? 

XIII. 

From  every  height,  the  path  must  downward  go ; 

Nor  firm  abiding  there,  will  Fate  permit. 
Oh !  bravely  linger,  if  descent  be  slow, 

We  less  perceive,  we  readier  yield  to  it. 

XIV. 

Yet  linger  vainly.     Years  with  swift  increase, 

Inexorably  bear  us  down,  to  where 
The  highest  joy  that  man  can  ask,  is  peace, 

And  pains  are  light  that  end  not  in  despair. 

xv. 

We  lose  the  sun's  bright  rays  as  we  descend — 
If  still  he  shine,  he  shines  to  other  eyes ; 

And  more  our  melancholy  glances  tend, 
Where  ominously  hang  the  western  skies. 


162  TEDIUM 


XVI. 

The  warm,  electric  thrill  of  twenty-one, 

That  made  the  friend  the  sharer  of  the  heart, 

Has  long  departed ;  we  have  colder  grown, 
And  rest  our  faith  in  wisdom's  shrewder  art. 

XVII. 

And  saddest  change  of  all,  the  gentle  maid, 
Whose  impulse  once  was  sweetest  charity, 

Whose  whispers  underneath  the  summer  shade, 
Sincerely  breathed  of  Love  and  Peace,  to  me — 

XVIII. 

Ah  !  why  should  haggard  memory  recall 

The  dream?  Unworthy  husband,  blasting  years, 

Too  surely  conquer.     If  a  seraph  fall, 

The  mournful  ruin  who  shall  gauge  with  tears  ? 

XIX. 

The  senses  fail.    Where  now  the  vision  keen, 
That  tracked  the  eagle  through  the  sun-lit  sky, 

And  left  no  beauties  of  the  world  unseen  ? 
Uncertain  shadows  now,  they  pass  us  by. 


TEDIUM     VIT2E.  163 

XX. 

Or  when  the  goblets  flash  around  the  board, 
And  wit  and  song  prolong  the  festal  night, 

Can  rarest  wine,  from  crystal  beakers  poured, 
Awake  the  flush  of  youthful  appetite  ? 

XXI. 

And  verses  weary,  music  dully  falls ; 

The  ear,  grown  critical,  too  early  tires ; 
No  rhythmic  harmony,  but  soon  it  palls 

On  him  who  feebly,  languidly  admires. 

XXII. 

And  selfish  grown,  we  widely  sit  apart, 

And  nurse  our  silent  and  our  separate  schemes. 

Our  lips  no  more  convey  from  heart  to  heart 
The  frank  recital  of  ingenuous  dreams. 


164  TO     A     DAY     IN     MARCH 


TO  A  DAY  IN  MARCH, 


i. 

DAY  not  more  fair  than  many  days, 

Nor  ruled  by  sure  or  sunny  skies, 

And  less  deserving  Poets'  praise, 

When  vernal  songs  arise, 

Than  those  that  after  come, 

Breathing  May  blossoms  out  upon  the  air, 

Or  scattering  June's  red  roses  round  our  home, 

Yet  I  to  sing  thy  praise  will  always  dare. 

ii. 

To  me  a  welcome  thou  shalt  bring, 
Since  envious  years  must  surely  roll, 
When  first  the  young  and  timid  spring, 
Creeps  slowly  to  the  pole. 
Though  birds  delay  to  fly, 
Delay  their  passionate  song,  delay  the  nest ; 
Yet  love  keeps  pace  with  thee  along  the  sky, 
And  brings  familiar  gladness  to  my  breast. 


TO     A     DAY     IN     MARCH.  165 

III. 

Speak  ever  to  the  faithful  hearts 

Of  two  who  watch  thy  coming  well, 

To  whom  the  day  a  joy  imparts 

Beyond  this  verse  to  tell ; 

The  self-same  words  of  hope 

That  once  descended  softly  from  the  blue, 

And  from  thy  mild  and  fleecy  clouded  cope, 

Fell  on  our  reverent  heads  like  gentlest  dew. 


166  LUCY 


LUCY 


I  SAW,  when  late  he  left  the  ball, 

Through  eyes  grown  somewhat  dim  and  tired, 
That  you — 'twere  best  concealed  from  all — 

That  you  admired. 

Yet,  gentle  maiden,  you  confess 
Not  even  to  yourself  the  thought ; 

And  who  am  I,  that  I  should  press 
Advice  not  sought  ? 

For  though  the  glances  of  your  eye, 

Treacherous,  your  feelings  quick  betrayed, 

What  right  has  stranger  thus  to  spy, 
And  thus  invade 

The  secrets  of  your  virgin  heart  ? 

But  plain  to  him,  who  not  excels 
In  love-craft,  you  can  have  no  part 

Where  other  dwells 


LDCT.  167 

Already.    Spare  the  fruitless  sigh, 

Half-heaved  and  sudden-checked.     Ah !  vain, 
If  Love  uncalled,  too  early  fly, 

He  falls  again. 

Hope  not.     For  you  no  resting-place 

Exists,  or  can,  within  his  breast ; 
Through  all  his  visions  glides  a  face, 

Obscures  the  rest : 

Than  yours  no  faker.     You  are  fair ; 

But  fairer  you  than  Paphian  doves, 
Or  Vashti,  you  could  not  compare 

With  her  he  loves. 

Forget — forget  in  time :  for  now 
The  thought  is  friendly  to  your  soul, 

And  fits  for  future  love :  but  how, 
If  past  control  ? 

Not  weakness,  checked.     The  common  fate 

It  is,  to  suffer.     He  who  jests 
At  you,  with  vultures  well  might  mate — 

And  they  the  best ! 


168  LUCY. 

Forget — but  only  him.     Let  Love 

Still  rule  your  breast  with  welcome  power, 

The  heavens  will  surely  bounteous  prove, 
Some  happier  hour. 


THE     STREAM     AT     THE     NORTH.         169 


THE  STREAM  AT  THE  NORTH. 


WHERE  gray  Tahawus  lifts  his  head 

High  in  the  northern  air, 
And  nodding  plumes  of  hemlock  boughs, 

Obscure  the  noonday  glare, 
A  noisy  river  courses  o'er 

A  bed  of  opals  rare. 

In  hidden  clefts  of  mountain  caves, 

Its  living  springs  arise, 
Known  only  to  the  deer  who  shuns 

The  watchful  hunter's  eyes, 
And  having  quenched  his  eager  thirst, 

Back  to  his  covert  flies. 

0  fair  that  brook  to  him  who  wooes 

The  goddess  of  the  wood, 
Who  seeks  to  win  her  loving  smiles 

In  her  own  solitude, 
And  offers  grateful  sacrifice 

Upon  her  altars  rude. 


170         THE     STREAM     AT     THE     NORTH. 

But  fairer  is  that  bright  wood-stream 

To  him  who,  loving  well 
Nature  in  all  her  myriad  forms 

Of  which  the  poets  tell, 
Has  ever  found  his  feet  incline 

To  where  the  Naiads  dwell : 

And  in  the  swiftly-rushing  floods, 
Where  spotted  troutlets  shine, 

Eclipsing  in  their  ruddy  glow 
The  splendors  of  the  mine, 

With  beating  heart  and  skillful  arm 
Has  cast  the  quivering  line : 

For  in  these  crystal  waves  he  finds 
The  sum  of  all  his  dreams ; 

What  time,  in  visions  of  the  night, 
He  tried  those  wondrous  streams, 

Which,  in  the  angler's  Paradise, 
Are  white  with  scaly  gleams. 


THE  STREAM  AT  THE  NORTH.    171 

With  joyful  heart  and  bounding  foot, 

He  takes  his  eager  way 
To  the  cool  banks,  when  faintly  breaks 

The  dawn  of  morning  gray  ; 
And  when  across  the  whirlpool  slants 

The  sun's  declining  ray. 

Treading  by  pools  whose  darkling  depths 

Elude  the  fearful  eye, 
He  scales  the  wet  and  oozy  crags 

From  which  the  foam-wreaths  fly  ; 
And  finds  the  broad  and  rapid  shoals 

Where  trout  at  evening  lie. 

Then  with  his  trusty  hatchet  frames 

A  cabin  rude  of  bark  ; 
And  soon  his  camp-fire's  spiral  darts 

Shoot  up  into  the  dark  ; 
And  o'er  the  dusky  forest  boughs 

Whirls  many  an  eddying  spark. 


172         THE     STEEAM     AT     THE     NORTH. 


And  thus  by  day  his  pulse  is  high, 
By  night  his  dreams  are  sweet ; 

And  when  unto  the  world  of  men 
Again  he  turns  his  feet, 

He  feels  his  soul  and  frame  prepared 
Its  heavy  cares  to  meet. 

Bright  stream,  unto  thy  mossy  banks 
Long  may  the  red  deer  go  ; 

Amid  the  Adirondack  wilds, 
Thy  opal  waters  flow  ; 

And  to  the  angler's  loving  eyes, 
Their  fruitful  beauties  show. 


GALLIA     CAPTA.  173 


GALLIA   CAPTA 


WRITTEN    IMMEDIATELY  AFTER    THE    COUP  D'ETAT. 


L 

THE  nation,  vexed  by  more  than  ancient  pains, 
In  dull  submission  wastes  the  fruitless  year ; 

Her  city  walls  are  red  with  shameful  stains, 
And  men  are  dumb  with  fear. 

ii. 

Her  long-descended  standards,  late  so  proud, 
And  flaunted  gaily  out  before  the  world, 

Are  drooped  beneath  a  black,  impervious  shroud- 
In  dust  and  darkness  furled. 

in. 
The  name  whose  mention  sent  a  sudden  shock 

Of  leaping  terror  to  the  farthest  lande, 
Sublimely  potent  on  the  Baltic  rock — 

Amid  the  Libyan  sands  ; 


174  GALLIA     CAPTA. 

IV. 

Obscures  its  glories.  He  who  bears  it  now, 
At  once  the  shame  and  strength  of  all  his  race, 

Has  girt  a  purchased  crown  about  his  brow, 
And  wears  a  twofold  face : 

v. 
A  new-born  Janus,  armed  with  horrid  frown, 

With  threats  whose  consummation  follows  fast, 
With  cunning  words  that  keep  the  people  down, 

And  cheat  them  to  the  last. 

VI. 

Submissive  turning  to  the  Northern  god 

At  whose  command  he  plays  his  coward  part, 

With  smiling  face  attentive  to  the  nod 
That  nerves  his  fearful  heart. 

VII. 

The  world  is  waiting.     Justice  hides  her  beam, 
And  plarrts  her  sword  within  the  sluggish  ground ; 

And  human  fancies,  in  divided  stream, 
Emit  a  dubious  sound. 


GALLIA     CAPTA.  175 

VIII. 

Perhaps  a  passing  mist  obscures  the  light 

Of  that  clear  star  that  on  the  nations  burned ; 

Perhaps   the  thick-hung  clouds  that  brought  the 

night, 
Will  soon  be  backward  turned. 

IX. 

Or  gloomier  terror  may  enshroud  the  land, 

From  mightier  hands  the  wrathful  vials  flow  ; 

Till  in  the  silent  dark  the  people  stand, 
Engulfed  in  hopeless  woe. 


176  EPIGRAMS    FROM     MARTIAL. 


EPIGRAMS   FROM   MARTIAL 


AD     CECILIANUM. 

MY  friend,  before  you  won  your  wife, 

No  suitor  e'er  disturbed  her  life ; 

But  since — you  guard  her  with  such  care, 

That  people  think  there's  something  there, 

And  now  she's  all  the  rage.    A  word  with  you : 

While  she  is  neither  seen  nor  heard — she'll  do  ! 


IN    PHILONEM. 

PHILO,  up  and  down  through  Rome, 
Swears  he  never  dines  at  home. 
"  Prodigious  fellow !"     People  say : 
"What,  asked  to  dinner  every  day  ?" 
Not  so  fast — he's  often  slighted — 
Four  times  a  week,  at  least,  he's  not  invited, 
And  then,  the  sycophantic  sinner 
Has  no  chance  at  all  of  dinner ! 


SOPHIA.  177 


SOPHIA 


You  smiled  on  me,  when  first  the  smile 
Of  woman  filled  my  soul  with  pleasure ; 

And,  all  my  fancy  free  of  guile, 

I,  boyish,  eager,  grasped  the  treasure 

Thus  offered.    Then  you  thronged  my  dreams 
In  every  shape  of  grace  and  love ; 

A  thousand  glances — thousand  gleams 
Of  new-born  sunlight  from  above. 

How  stirred  my  senses  then  !     A  new, 

Fresh  life  had  dawned.     Then  passed  away 

All  former  joys,  and,  following  you, 
I  lived  in  Love's  perpetual  day. 

I  hymned  you  in  a  thousand  songs ; 

For  you  I  beggared  land  and  sky ; 
I  said :  Whate'er  to  Earth  belongs 

Of  Beauty,  pales  when  she  is  nigh. 

8  * 


178  SOPHIA. 

And  still  you  smiled,  and  still  you  praised, 
And  fed  me  with  rewards  so  sweet — 

Ah !  why  forget  that  I  have  raised 

The  grave-mound  o'er  their  dear  deceit, 

Deep  buried  ?    Yet  their  mocking  shades 
Glide  through  the  chambers  of  my  heart ; 

One  enters  as  another  fades, 

I  would — would  not — they  might  depart. 


'Twas  but  a  fancy — thus  you  said — 
A  sister  you  might  be  ;  no  more. 

"What  gave  that  moment  strength,  that  dead 
I  was  not  carried  from  your  door  ? 

Oh  !  but  that  this  unfeeling  frame 
O'er  the  chained  mind  usurps  control, 

I  had  consumed  in  passionate  flame  ; 
But  Nature  spares  us — pitying  soul ! 


SOPHIA.  179 

What  use  to  argue  ?     You  had  taken 

Of  life  the  glory  and  the  bloom  : 
At  once,  of  these  and  you,  forsaken, 

Could  aught  dispel  or  gild  the  gloom  ? 

Remember  now,  that  I  reproved  you 
In  not  a  word.    With  gesture  sad, 

I  said  :  Sophia,  I  have  loved  you, 
And  I  have  given  you  all  I  had. 

Whatever  be  the  cause  that  led  you, 
Thus,  reckless,  with  my  heart  to  play, 

I  will  not  ask  it.     Then  I  fled  you, 
Nor  know  I  where  I  went  that  day. 

Oblivion  hides  it.     Let  the  cloud 
Still  linger :  let  such  cloud  obscure 

All  deadly  sorrows,  that  the  proud, 
When  hidden,  only  can  endure. 


180  SOPHIA. 

Remember,  now,  that  I  reproved  you 
In  not  a  word.     From  manhood's  power 

Is  woman  safe :  else  had  I  loved  you 
Tenfold,  your  life  that  very  hour 

Were  forfeit.  What,  shall  you  receive 
The  garnered  tribute  of  my  heart, 

And  waste  it  ?     But  your  sex  has  leave 
To  safely  play  a  treacherous  part ! 

I  thought  you  kindly  as  your  name, 
That,  softly  flowing,  charms  the  air : — 

Let  him  love  you  who  loves  the  flame 

That  leaves  the  meadow  scorched  and  bare ! 

I  did  not  die.     An  idle  tale 

Is  this — that  blasted  love  is  death. 

Why  should  my  ruddy  currents  fail, 
Because  my  heart  lies  numb  beneath  ? 

Who  dies  ?     Some  sickly  soul  lies  here, 
Who,  while  he  lived,  was  scarce  alive  ; 

At  Love's  rebuff  he  died  of  fear ; 
But  they  who  merit  life  survive. 


SOPHIA.  181 

And  not  within  your  hands  is  placed 
The  bolt  of  death.     Creator  wise, 

Oft  is  thy  creature,  man,  disgraced, 
But  not  from  wounded  love  he  dies. 

Whatever  birthright  we  have  shared, 

Or  yielded  wholly  to  the  Sex, 
Still,  from  this  crowning  folly  spared, 

Our  life  survives  of  life  the  wrecks. 


Go,  Woman,  you  have  had  your  day ; 

I,  whom  you  injured — I  forgive: 
The  worst  for  you  that  I  can  say, 

Is  this :  Sophia,  go,  and  live. 

The  hopes  of  manhood  call  me  on — 
Friends,  reputation,  wealth,  and  fame  ; 

And  rises  bright  o'er  all,  the  dawn 
Of  Love  that  now  deserves  the  name. 


182  SOPHIA. 

Nor  less  I  love,  because  you  taught 
Me  how  to  feel  a  woman's  art : 

Not  yours  is  every  woman's  thought, 
Nor  false  is  every  woman's  heart. 

What  have  you  gained  ?     A  victory  here — 
A  victory  there.     The  fruit  is  light : 

Of  what  avail  to  you  the  tear 
I  haply  shed  one  bitter  night  ? 

Will  others  love  you  yet  ?     Behold, 
Aslant  your  temples — fatal  sign— 
The  crowfoot !     You  are  growing  old ; 
And  here  the  Sex  is  not  like  wine. 

Oh  !  let  the  ripening  matron  dwell 
In  reverence.     You  are  not  as  she. 

The  years  that  blast  the  thorn,  how  well 
They  deck  the  bounteous  apple-tree ! 

Live  on,  the  wonder  of  the  maid 
Who  presses  manly  arm  at  eve  ; 

Ah  !  gentle  sunbeam  of  my  shade, 

Some  souls  there  be  that  can't  deceive. 


SOPHIA.  183 


Live  on  :  from  me  no  further  word ; 

Live  on,  and  vainly  hope  repose  ; 
Ever  with  her  who  thus  has  erred, 

There  troops  a  sullen  host  of  woes, 


184  A     FINANCIAL     EXPERIENCE. 


A  FINANCIAL  EXPERIENCE. 


IN  the  city  of  Hartford — the  people  of  which 
Are,  with  scarce  an  exception,  enormously  rich ; 
Possessed  of  whole  counties    and  States   at  the 

West, 

And  still  having  cash  that  they  wish  to  invest ; 
And  they  know  how  to  do  it,  if  any  can  know, 
As  their  notes,  stocks,  and  bonds  will  abundantly 

show — 

There  lives  a  warm  fellow  who  makes  it  his  trade 
To  discount  good  paper  as  fast  as  'tis  made. 

In  fact,  he  invites  it,  and  hangs  out  a  sign, 
Enticing  and  eloquent — only  one  line  ; 
I  think  it  good  English — quite  free  from  impurities : 
"  Money  always  to  lend,  on  the  best  of  securities." 
It  gives  one  great  trust  in  this  kindest  of  men, 
To  note  how  precaution  presides  o'er  his  gain  ; 
I'd  leave  him  my  funds  as  I  pass  through  the  town, 
Were  they  not  drawn  so  closely,  alarmingly,  down. 


A     FINANCIAL     EXPERIENCE.  185 

This  kindest  of  creatures,  with  other  good  qualities, 
Possessed,  as  is  natural,  certain  partialities. 
In  dates  not  particular — shorter  or  longer — 
Where  paper  is  lengthy,  the  profit  is  stronger. 
But  this  his  chief  preference — I  own  to  the  same : 
He  always  desired  a  "favorite  name  ;" 
He  meant  it  financially — the  name  that  I  hank- 
Er  for  lodges  with  Cupid,  and  not  at  the  Bank ! 

My  friend,  if  you  covet  wealth,  comfort,  or  fame, 
Oh !  haste  to  acquire  a  favorite  name  ; 
For  what  would  become  of  our  snug  little  dinners, 
The  pleasures    and   dainties  that  cheer  us   poor 

sinners, 

The  luxuries  of  life  that  pertain  to  our  station, 
Should  our  banker  refuse  us  all  accommodation  ? 
A  good  name  is  better  than  riches,  you'll  find, 
While  it  lasts,  Master  Plutus,  if  paid  well,  is  kind. 

One  name  in  especial,  he  vastly  admired, 

A  dresser  of  leather — but  long  since  retired ; 

Punctilious  and  honest,  a  trifle  too  free 

With  his  friendly  indorsement ;  and  here,  as  you  see, 


186  A    FINANCIAL    EXPERIENCE. 

Was  the  source  of  his  profit — not  being  legitimate 
Paper  of  business,  the  bank  was  quite  shy  of  it. 
So  knowing  his  safety  and  wealth  of  estates, 
Our  friend  always  took  it,  and  made  his  own  rates. 

But  T.  Wray,  the  leather  man,  being  a  wag, 
And  not  quite  half-liking  his  paper  should  drag, 
And  his  neighbors  be  forced  to  submit  to  a  shave, 
Most  fiendishly,  wickedly,  thus  did  behave : 
He  went  to  a  neighbor  and  thus  did  he  say  : 
"  Make  the  following  note  to  my  order — T.  Wray. 
And  start  not  in  horror,  though  fearful  the  style 
Of  the  paper  in  question — 'twill  yet  make  you 
smile." 

Ne  lude  cum  seriis,  says  Wisdom  ;   despite  her, 
The  fault  is  T.  Wray's,  not  the  fault  of  the  writer: 
This,  then,  was  the  document — brief,  but  how  dis 
mal  ! 

Revealing  a  perfidy  truly  abysmal : 
Sixty  days  after  death  I  promise  to  pay 
To  the  order  of  Mr.  Theophilus  Wray, 
For  value  received  of  him,  Jive  hundred  dollars, 
At  my  office  on  Blank  street — Simeon  Colters. 


A     FINANCIAL     EXPERIENCE.  187 

An  ominous  promise  for  mortal  to  make, 

Who  knows  not  what  course  his  hereafter  will  take : 

But  this  is  but  prosing.     The  note  was  completed, 

And  straight  to  our  friend,  Mr.  S.  Collers  fleeted : 

Began  with  some  talk  in  a  general  way — 

The  state  of  the  wreather,  the  news  of  the  day ; 

Diverged  to  finance  by  an  easy  transition, 

And  lugged  out  the  note  in  a  crumpled  condition. 

Who  ever  would  think  to  look  Death  in  the  face 
On  the  face  of  a  note  ?    'Tis  a  singular  place ! 
No  wonder  the  banker,  not  dreaming  the  state 
Of  the  matter,  imagined  the  "death"  to  be  "date." 
The  "d,"  "a,"  and  "t"  were  so  large  in  the  joints, 
The  "e"  and  the  "h"  shrunk  to  minimum  points  : 
Percentage  was  settled — I  have  heard  of  a  lower, 
And  the  customer  bowed  in  due  form  to  the  door. 

The  note  in  collection  then  quietly  rested, 

And  in  due  course  of  time  was  most  promptly 

— protested ; 

The  Notary  adding  his  honest  conviction, 
The  matter  was  quite  beyond  law's  jurisdiction. 


188  A     FINANCIAL     EXPERIENCE. 

"  The  note  is  not  due,"  thus  he  said  in  the  margin, 
"  The  evidence  ample,  and  needs  no  enlarging  ; 
I  protest  for  mere  form,  and  yourself,  sir,  to  please, 
And  I  fear  that  your  case  is  quite  weak  in  the 

knees, 
And  I'll  thank  you  to  send  by  the  bearer,  the  fees." 

The   lawyers    were   puzzled,   till    one    who   had 

dream't  o'er 

The  case  rather  longer,  said  :  "Caveat  emptor — 
It  is  clear  that  no  fraud  has  been  done  or  intended ; 
If  sued,  Mr.  Wray  can  with  ease  be  defended. 
In  fine,"  quoth  the  sapient  man  of  the  law, 
"  The  do  is  as  perfect  as  ever  I  saw ; 
Search  out,  first  the  drawer,  and  then  the  drawee, 
Make  the  best  terms  you  can — and,  beg  pardon,  the 

fee." 

But  scarce  had  our  friend  reached  his  office  next 

day, 

Quite  sick  of  expenses,  when  entered  T.  Wray ; 
The  note,  less  the  discount  and  charges,  to  pay, 
Provided  the  Banker  thereafter  would  claim, 
Only  legalized  rates  on  his  favorite  name. 


A     FINANCIAL     EXPERIENCE.         *  189 

And  thus  the  indorser,  Theophilus,  spoke : 
We  teach  you  a  lesson  by  means  of  a  joke  ; 
To  take,  whether  greater  or  lesser  distress  it  is, 
No  unfair  advantage  of  people's  necessities. 

What  followed  ?    A  dinner  of  course — and  the  rest, 
Champagne  and    Good  Fellowship — both  of  the 

best: 

But  here  is  the  circumstance  worthy  of  note — 
The  Banker,  though  never  before  had  he  wrote 
Any  verses  for  albums,  or  papers,  or  fairs, 
And  rather  avoided  such  pitfalls  and  snares, 
After  some  little  hemming  and  mild  hesitation, 
Propounded  this  moral  with  great  acceptation  : 


MORAL. 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE   tINFOKTUNATE  BANKING  CLASSES. 

Avoid  all  bills,  both  small  and  great, 
That  run  beyond  the  present  state, 

For  fear  a  mortuary  date 
May  give  you  much  too  long  to  wait. 


190    <        A    FINANCIAL     EXPERIENCE. 

For  if  you  gain  the  upper  air, 
You  may  not  find  your  debtor  there ; 
Or  if  you  haply  chance  to  go 
Where  fancy  rates  are  charged  for  snow, 
You'll  find  collections  hard  and  slow ! 


CROSS  PURPOSES. 


ON  the  Hudson  steamer,  to  the  coke- 
Feeder,  thus  a  thirsty  traveler  spoke  : 
"  Where's  the  bar?  "  To  which  in  answer,  he 
"  Just  nine  miles  this  side  of  Albany!" 


ROSALIA.  191 


ROSALIA. 


ROSALIA,  often  you  complain, 

Your  husband's  love  begins  to  wane. 

In  naught  does  he  neglectful  prove, 

Affection  lives  in  every  act ; 

But  where  is  now  the  throbbing  love 

Of  which  his  being  once  was  all  compact  ? 

When  dawned  the  nuptial  hour, 

Trembling,  you  feared  his  love.     Imperial  power 

It  seemed ;   a  gorgeous  monarch,  waited    on  by 

bands 

Of  flying,  eager,  quick  desires, 
Innumerous  as  ocean's  sands, 
And  ardent  as  the  roaring  woodland  fires. 
Has  love  informed    your   own,   thrilled  through 

your  veins, 

Shook  your  awed  soul  with  joys  as  fierce  as  pains, 
Made  life  too  sweet  to  bear, 
And  filled  with  dazzling  light  the  sphere 
Where  you  reigned  royally  when  he  was  near. 


192  ROSALIA. 

When  dawned  the  nuptial  hour, 

Indeed,  Rosalia,  love's  imperial  power 

Shone  from  his   eyes.      But,  tell  me  where  was 

then 

The  love  that  fitly  answered  his  again  ? 
Unborn  as  yet ;  for  you  were  satisfied 
Simply  to  be  his  bride. 
This,  to  your  gentle  timid  soul, 
Seemed  to  be  of  love  the  whole. 
You  were  content  to  be  his  treasure, 
His  source  of  joy,  his  fount  of  pleasure  ; 
Him  you  sought  not,  but  if  desired, 
How  blest  were  you  to  be  admired  ; 
How  blest  were  you  to  be  to  him  a  joy, 
Which  you  dreamed  not  before  you  could  impart ; 
And  happy  you,  thus  always  to  employ 
The  passive  kindness  of  your  virgin  heart. 

You  married.     Then  your  love  awoke, 
Unheard,  unknown,  till  then,  your  being  spoke 
To  you  in  accents  thrilling,  strange,  and  new, 
And  love's  bright  arrows  pierced  you  through. 


ROSALIA.  193 

No  sacrifice  too  great  for  you  to  make 

For  his  dear  sake, 

Whose  name  you  bore  ;  with  him  most  willingly 

You  would  have  crossed  the  land  and  sea. 

Why  had  your  eyes  so  long  been  closed 

To  those  perfections  where  you  now  reposed 

Your  trust,   your  life,   yourself"?     What  fortune 

rare 
Had  made  you  mistress  there  ? 

Among  all  maidens,  why  were  you  his  choice, 
Whose  smiles  had  made  a  Queen  rejoice  ? 
Each  day,  each  month,  saw  love's  increase ; 
You  dressed,  you  sang,  you  danced,  your  lord  to 

please, 

And  only  him  ;  the  world  beside 
Unheeded  passed.     Your  only  pride 
Was  He :  and  if  He  praised,  your  soul  was  satisfied. 

ut  did  he  love  you  more 
an  he  had  loved  before  ? 

h  !  no.     The  goldfinch  in  the  air 

ore  sweetly  sings 
Than  when,  of  human  tenderness  the  care, 
Within  the  cage  it  folds  its  wings. 


194  ROSALIA. 

When  the  forest  warbler 

In  your  bosom  lies, 

Dulled  are  the  bright  colors 

That  once  so  charmed  your  eyes. 

He  loved  you  none  the  more, 

Because  a  greater  love  for  him  you  bore, 

But  rather  loved  you  less, 

Because  his  own  unworthiness, 

Known  so  well  to  him, 

Escaped  your  penetration  dim. 

Unsagacious,  undiscerning,  fondly  blind, 

Love  that  loses  least  respect  shall  bitter  ending 

find. 

Man  that  reasons,  loses  reason, 
Only  in  his  own  desire  ; 
She  who  would  keep  his  love  in  season, 
Must  fear  to  love  with  equal  fire. 

Unwelcome  truth — as  old  as  human  life : 

The  maid — the  bride — is  dearer  than  the  wife. 

I  know  that  poets  say, 

Not  so :  but  what  says  every  day  ? 

0  Poets !  gild  the  truth,  but  don't  deny 

The  iron  facts  that  'neath  the  gilding  lie. 


, 


ROSALIA.  195 

Let  life  assert  itself,  within  your  song, 

Wholly  and  truly,  else  the  world  you  wrong, 

— Rosalia,  never  more 

Shall  you  behold  the  love  that  once  he  bore. 

But  blame  him  not :  did  he  blame  you, 

Or  doubt  if  you  were  true, 

Because  your  love  for  him  seemed  cold, 

When  one  light  word  from  you  were  worth  a  world 

of  gold? 

When  he  tossed  throughout  the  weary  night ; 
Lost  his  courage,  trembled  with  affright, 
If  you  but  careless  seemed ;  then  did  you  share 
Such  wild  love  and  wild  despair  ? 
No  ;  you  calmly  slept  and  woke, 
Smiled  upon  him  when  he  spoke, 
Walked  with  him  beneath  the  moon, 
Playful,  said,  "  What,  home  so  soon  !" 
Breathed  a  kind  prayer,  and  peaceful,  slept, 
While  he  on  restless  couch  a  weary  vigil  kept 

n  love,  as  life,  if  wants  are  few 
ow  easy  'tis  to  fill  them ; 
ain  and  idle  wants  subdue, 
,  what  is  better,  kill  them. 


196  ROSALIA. 

Follow  Nature,  if  you  would 

Be  happy,  wise,  and  free  : 

Nature  would  not,  if  she  could, 

Except  her  laws  for  thee. 

Would  you  win  your  husband's  love  ? 

Ever  keep  thyself  above 

Love's  level ;  let  him  not  possess 

Wholly  thyself;  a  little  less 

Will  make  him  long  for  all. 

Call  him  upward  where  you  are  : 

When  he  reach  that  station  fair, 

Higher,  farther,  call. 

Oft  be  to  him  a  maiden  strange, 

After  whom  his  thoughts  shall  range  ; 

Lead  him  through  the  flowery  path, 

Where  Imagination  nath 

Her  choicest  rove,  and  let  his  fancy  find 

In  you  the  sum  of  every  good  combined. 

Beware  satiety ;  the  sweetest,  thence, 

Too  much,  too  often  tasted,  blunt  the  sense. 

Often  change  your  mood ;  but  pride 

Keep  thee  ever  dignified, 

And  maiden-modest.     Petulance, 

Anger,  jealousy,  pretense, 


ROSALIA.  197 

Keep  these  distant  from  your  thought : 
Much  contempt  these  evil  birds  have  wrought, 
But  never  love  ;  and  such  defect 
Must  surely  drive  away  respect. 

Let  me  not  transgress  the  bound 

Where  home  and  husband  fence  thee  round  ; 

But  trust  me — me  who  would  restore 

The  love  whose  loss  you  now  deplore. 

Win  it — keep  it,  while  you  may ; 

All  too  soon  'twill  fade  away : 

Who  shall  Nature  disobey  ? 

Soon  your  winsome  beauty  fades, 

Lo,  a  troop  of  laughing  children  now  your 

hearth  invades ! 

Fresh  and  joyous,  think  you,  as  they  play, 
Each  has  helped  to  steal  my  youth  away  ? 
Man,  grown  older,  in  his  children  lives ; 
They  are  of  his  blood  : 
For  them,  his  toil  he  cheerful  gives, 
And  makes  them  heirs  of  all  his  good. 
In  them  he  sees  perpetuate 
His  name,  his  fame,  his  rising  state 


198  ROSALIA. 

Of  greatness,  wealth — whatever  he 

Most  desires  confirmed  should  be. 

They,  and  they  only,  without  pain, 

Recall  his  days  of  youth  again ; 

In  them  he  sees  his  early  bloom, 

When  life  had  never  heard  of  gloom  ; 

In  his  friends  around,  he  spies 

Crow's-feet  springing  from  the  eyes, 

Failing  senses,  waning  power, 

No  promise  in  the  coming  hour ; 

The  rose  has  faded  from  the  cheek 

That  once  so  redly  blushed,  if  he  but  chanced 

to  speak  ; 

The  ardent  gust  of  life  has  fled, 
Its  joyous  hopes  are  crushed — are  dead  ; 
But  lo  !  he  sees  around  him  stand 
A  rising,  happy,  mirthful  band, 
Who  make  him  young  again.     For  thee — 
Best,  if  thou  join  their  company ; 
Rosalia,  'tis  the  stratagem 
Will  give  thee  power  over  him. 
Let  not  the  thought  of  age  intrude, 
As  you  look  round  upon  your  brood. 


ROSALIA.  199 

Be  young  with  them  by  happy  art, 
And  gain  the  vantage  of  his  heart ; 
Though  the  daughters  please  him  well, 
What !  shall  you  lose,  without  a  sigh, 
The  old,  accustomed  spell, 
That  once  you  won  and  kept  him  by  ? 
Fear  not  the  unequal  race, 
Let  not  care  invade  your  face, 
Let  your  smiles  be  morns  of  May  ; 
Then,  as  of  old,  will  he  obey : 
Or,  at  the  worst,  you  can  but  share 
The  empire  with  your  daughters  fair. 

But  dream  not  ever  to  displace, 

Rosalia,  maiden,  bride,  or  wife, 

The  sad  sub-bass 

That  underrunneth  every  woman's  life  ; 

See  the  honors  that  await 

Man's  advancing  state. 

But,  long  since,  flattery 

Ceased  to  fall  upon  your  ear, 

Nor,  as  in  days  gone  by, 

Do  you  but  need  to  speak  for  all  to  hear ; 


200  KOSALIA. 

No  matter  how  disguised, 

At  last,  on  you  surprised, 

Will  fall  the  world's  command  ;  with  grace 

Content  thyself  to  fill  the  second  place  ; 

In  thy  husband's  name 

Be  content  to  find  thy  fame, 

And  let  thy  sons  and  daughters  be 

Crowns  of  honor  unto  thee. 

The  day  has  passed,  of  her  who  once  was  fair, 

Her  husband's,  children's,  triumphs  now  to 

share, 

Becomes  her  state  :  nor  more  ambition  gives 
To  her  who  after  Youth  and  Beauty  lives. 


HELEN.  201 


HELEN 


THE  brimming  tides  of  Delaware 

Beyond  the  meadows  gleam  ; 
I  see  the  ships  they  proudly  bear  : 

I  hear  the  flowing  stream. 
The  panting  ox  before  the  plough 

Enjoys  the  shade,  nor  dreams  of  me; 
His  master's  sturdy  shoulders  bow 

Beneath  the  apple  tree, 
In  which  I  sit,  in  swaying  nest, 

And  taste  the  airs  of  balmy  June, 
And  wait  the  hour  that  makes  me  blest — 

My  heart  with  summer  hours  in  tune. 


202  HELEN. 


II. 

Last  night,  while  blew  the  Southern  wind, 

I  lay  beneath  the  trees, 
And  gazing  at  her  window-blind, 

I  sang  such  songs  as  these : 
Awake,  my  Queen,  for  now  the  night 

Has  hushed  a  world  that  doubts  of  Love, 
And  Love  the  Conqueror  sheds  his  light — 

The  conquered  world  above. 
Yet  sleep,  my  Queen,  for  happy  dreams 

Descend  to  thee  from  every  star, 
And  dearer  now  your  lover  seems, 

Than  any  waking  thought  could  dare." 


in. 

Spur  on  thy  coursers,  flaming  Sun, 
And  haste  the  trysting  hour, 

For  though  my  life  has  just  begun, 
The  bud  is  quick  to  flower. 


HELEN. 


203 


Though  sweet  the  cool  of  early  morn, 

The  shining  river's  seaward  flow, 
The  songs  of  birds  from  heaven  borne, 

The  hum  of  earth  below ; 
Yet  runs  my  heart  beyond  them  all, 

To  fairer  nook  of  garden  shade, 
Through  which  I  soon  shall  walk,  and  call 

The  flying,  yet  expectant  maid. 


204  SONNET, 


SONNET, 


You  talk  of  Sentiment :  but  I  renounce  it ; 
The  lips  are  echoes  of  the  mocking  heart, 
And  that  false  subtlety  that  takes  its  start 
From   out  the   soul's   dark  chambers — they  pro 
nounce  it. 

Oh  !  our  two  natures — they  are  rank  deceivers  ; 
The  inward  Counsellor,  the  outward  Act — 
The  gilded  Sentiment,  the  iron  Fact — 
Befooling  all  but  practised  unbelievers. 
True  wisdom  this  :  Doubt  the  fair  words  of  men  ; 
Hear  promises,  advice,  with  cautious  ears  ; 
Being  deceived,  be  not  deceived  again ; 
And  watch  the  deep  monitions  of  your  fears. 
So  shall  Success,  that  well-fed  imp,  abide 
Through  an  obsequious  world,  attendant  at  your 
side. 


SWIFT     RUSHING     RIVER     OF     LIFE.     205 


SWIFT  rushing  River  of  Life,  delay,  delay — 
Thy  endless  course  one  happy  moment  stay  ; 
Here,  on  this  fragrant  bank  of  summer  flowers, 
Fain  would  we  linger  out  the  day's  sweet  hours — 
Ah  !  day  too  sweet — too  brief — so  swift  the  sun, 
Half-ended  seem  our  joys,  when  scarce  begun  ! 

Still  flows  the  tide — still  drifts  our  helpless  bark — 
Still  round  the  world  for  ever  creeps  the  dark ; 
Still  sinks  the  sun  before  it :  Life  and  Light 
Yield,  and  must  ever  yield,  to  Death  and  Night. 
Each  hour  but  robs  us — longer  as  we  live, 
Each  robs  us  more,  because  we've  less  to  give. 

Unequal  contest,  where  th'  event  is  sure, 

And  courage  profits,  only  to  endure — 

Our  fitful  strife  with  Destiny  and  Time, 

— Hopeless  indeed,  but  none  the  less  sublime — 

Where  every  step  is  backward,  and  a  wall 

Of  darkness  glooms  upon  the  rear  of  all. 


206  WHAT  LESSON  GRAVES  THOSE  HOARY  ROCKS. 


WHAT  lesson  graves  those  hoary  rocks, 
Set  deeply  on  the  shores  of  Time, 
Whose  fangs  far-reaching  to  the  prime, 

Sway  not  by  elemental  shocks — 

Strong  songs  of  deep  and  lustrous  mind ; 
Clear  annals  of  the  world's  long  life, 
Sharp  truths  of  argumental  strife, 

True  pictures  of  our  human  kind  ? 

Not  that  in  sudden  gust  of  force 
Lives  the  high  secret  of  the  spell, 
By  which  we  too  may  build  as  well 

Eternal  records  of  our  course  : 


But  that  the  might  that  rears  a  Tower 
To  be  by  distant  ages  spied, 
Grows  in  the  arm  by  labor  tried, 

And  owns  no  circumstance  or  hour. 


FRAGMENTS     FROM    HORACE.  207 


FRAGMENTS    FROM    HORACE. 


AD  LICINIUM. 
I. 

BEWARE,  Licinius,  the  open  sea  ; 

But  while  you,  cautious,  shun  its  stormy  roar, 
Avoid  with  equal  care  the  treacherous  lee 

Of  rocky  shore. 

n. 
Whoever  cultivates  the  golden  mean, 

The  smirch  of  poverty  shall  safely  shun, 
And  mocking  riches  from  his  gaze  serene, 

Shall  ever  run. 

in. 
The  loftiest  pine  feels  most  the  northern  blast, 

The  highest  towers  endure  the  greatest  fall ; 
Yon  thunderbolt  the  lesser  house  has  past, 

To  strike  the  tall. 


208     FRAGMENTS  FROM  HORACE. 

IV. 

Oh !  let  your  soul,  prepared  for  either  fate, 
Hope  in  ill-fortune — fear  the  prosperous  hour  ; 

The  self-same  gods  now  kindle,  now  abate, 
The  tempest's  power. 

v. 

Be  sure,  if  all  is  dark  with  you  to-day, 

'Twill  change  to-morrow  :    songs  not  always 
waft 

From  great  Apollo  ;  nor  shall  always  slay 
His  vengeful  shaft. 

VI. 

Oppose  a  resolute  and  cheerful  breast 

To  blasts  unprosperous,  but  be  careful  too  ; 

Reef  sail,  when  too  propitious  from  the  west 
The  breezes  blow. 


FRAGMENTS     FROM     HORACE.  209 

AD  FUSCUM. 
I. 

THE  man  of  pure  and  upright  life, 
Needs  not  the  Moorish  bow  or  knife, 
Or  arrows  poison-charged  ;    for  he, 

0  Fuscus,  dear  to  me  ! 

Is  safe  within  his  own  integrity  : 

ii. 

Whether  o'er  desert  sands  he  goes, 
Or  toils  through  wild  Caucasian  snows, 
Or  under  burning  Persian  suns, 
The  heat  of  noonday  shuns 

In  groves,  through  which  the  bright  Hydaspes 
runs. 

m. 

For  while  in  Sabine  woods  I  strayed, 
And  sang  my  Laura,  sweetest  maid, 
Unarmed,  except  with  fragile  lyre, 

1  met  the  gray  wolfs  ire 

With  fearless  gaze,  and  awed  his  savage  fire. 


210      FRAGMENTS  FROM  HORACE. 

IV. 

Such  omen,  never  savage  clime 

Hath  known,  in  this  or  other  time  : 

Not  Daunia's  woodlands,  nor  the  land 

Of  Fez,  sirocco-fanned, 

Dry  nurse  of  lions  ;  realm  of  thirsty  sand, 

v. 

Should  I  be  sent' where  deadly  air, 
Malarious,  blasts  the  grape  and  pear ; 
Where  chilling,  endless  rain  and  storm 
The  drooping  skies  deform, 
And  ever  shut  from  sight  the  sunbeams 
warm  ; 

VI. 

Or  where,  beneath  a  torrid  sky, 
To  linger  is  to  faint  and  die — 
Land  to  all  other  men  denied ; 
Were  Laura  by  my  side, 
I  with  the  laughing  maid  could  joyously 
abide. 


HOMER.  211 


HOMER. 


A  BALMY  gale  from  far  Ionian  shore, 

That  blows  throughout  the  world  for  evermore. 


BLAXD  Majesty — that  tells  th,e  mingled  tale 
Of  War  and  Peace,  of  Marriage  and  of  Death  ; 

Of  ruddy  Conflagration,  Famine  pale, 

With  sweet,  unvaried,  and  unfaltering  breath. 

A  fragment,  unalloyed,  of  the  Divine, 

Who  sends  the  rain  to  good  and  bad  alike  ; 

Who  on  the  murderer  makes  his  sun  to  shine, 
Whose  fated  lightnings  oft  the  righteous  strike. 

Immortal  Singer :  thou  didst  rise  above 

Smiles  for  man's  joy,  and  tears  for  human  pain  ; 

No  frailty  mars  the  calm  and  boundless  love 
Which  thou  for  all  mankind  didst  entertain. 


212  MILTON. 


MILTON. 


AN  organ -peal  from  far-off  Minster  walls, 
That  on  the  awe-struck  ear  at  evening  falls. 


BECAUSE  you  dared  to  draw  aside  the  veil 
That  hides  the  other  world  from  mortal  eye, 

And  tell,  till  then  untold,  the  awful  tale 
Of  man's  first  sin,  that  doomed  us  all  to  die, 

We  hail  thee  Poet :  thou  art  Preacher  too  ; 

With  mighty  hand  you  draw  the  soul  away, 
Through  Death's  dark  valley,  hid  with  boding  yew, 

Far  from  sweet  airs  and  cheerful  light  of  day. 

And  yours  the  Preacher's  recompense.     We  bow 
To  thee  with  reverence  ;  but  how  few  can  claim 

A  friend's  acquaintance  with  thy  solemn  brow, 
Or  in  their  careless  moments  speak  thy  name  ! 


8HAKSPEARE.  213 


SHAKSPEARE. 


SYMPHOXIOUS  music  ;  orchestral  and  rare — 
A  thousand  lutes,  and  each  a  separate  air. 


MY  Teacher  :  Teacher  thou  of  all  the  race — 
And  mine  as  well  as  theirs :  I  clasp  thy  hand, 

And  look  without  a  fear  upon  thy  face, 
Contented  ever  in  such  light  to  stand. 

What  men  find  not  upon  thy  ample  page, 
Is  worth  but  little.     Would  they  wiser  be  ? 

You  speak,  and  lo,  the  sum  of  all  things  sage. 
Would  they  be  witty,  cynic,  grave,  or  free  ? — 

In  you  is  found  exhaustless  store  for  all ; 

Eternal  Record  of  the  Maker's  power : 
Great  Hint  of  what  had  been  but  for  the  Fall, 

Of  what  we  may  be  at  a  Future  Hour. 


CYRILLA. 


216  CTRILLA. 


CYRILLA 


I  TELL  a  simple  tale.     The  wild  romance 
Of  other  age  and  clime,  let  him  declare, 
Whoever  sweeps  with  better,  bolder  hand 
The  sacred  lyre  of  song. 

The  young  Seborne 

Had  grown  to  manly  age,  a  farmer's  son, 
Upon  the  banks  of  blue  Connecticut. 
Fed  with  the  fare  the  simple  country  gives 
To  mind  and  body  ;  strong,  and  lithe,  and  tall. 
His  face  outshining  healthy,  innocent  thought ; 
Yet  with  a  latent  gleam  that  might  repel 
Whomever  would  approach  with  threat  or  wile. 
Fresh-hued  and  ruddy  he  with  morning  air, 
And  shoulders   broad   from   mowing  countless 

meads, 
And  guiding  the  slow  plough   through  fallow 

fields. 


CYRILLA.  217 

And  patient  he  till  now  with  rustic  toil ; 
His  soul  slow  waking,  yet  was  satisfied 
With  labor  well  fulfilled  and  rest  enjoyed — 
With  iterative  talk  of  country  folk — 
With  kindly  simpleness  of  village  maid, 
Rough  sport  of  untaught  comrade,  and  such  all 
As  make  the  sum  of  still  New  England  life. 

When  at  the  meadow's  foot  he  lay  at  eve, 
And  watched  the  fair  blue  river  flowing  by, 
He  scarcely  wished  to  venture  on  its  breast 
And  try  with  it  the  fortunes  of  the  world. 
Than  these  no  meads  are  sweeter :  here  are  trees, 
And  hills,  and  plains,  as  fair  as  such  can  be. 
Here,  all  I  know  are  kind,  and  labor  shared 
By  all  is  honor,  and  joins  hand  with  peace. 
Nor  here  appear  the  shocks  and  storms  of  life  ; 
Nor  here  does  want  distress,  or  pride  deform. 
And  why  should  I,  as  others,  seek  a  strange 
And  unknown  world  beyond,  and  turn  too  late 
To  seek  again  the  once  sure  joys  of  home, 
Which,  if  despised  and  left,  are  found  no  more  ? 
10 


218  CYRILLA. 

This  would  he  say,  unknowing.     Not  as  yet 
Had  come  to  him  that  stern,  relentless  voice 
That  comes  at  last  to  all,  and  drives  them  forth 
To  conquer  all  the  earth.     Some  fall  at  first, 
Fear-trodden — by  the  shadow  of  danger  slain  ; 
And  those  who  bravest  strive,  and  longest  live, 
Attain  such  portion  of  their  youth's  wild  dream, 
As  were  a  sunbeam's  mote  to  Caucasus ! 

But  though  ambition  not  as  yet  had  crushed 
His  still  contentment,  it  was  not  the  sleep 
Of  ignorance  in  which  his  wishes  lay. 
Long  had  he  passed  from  out  the  village  school, 
Whose  tall  lean  belfry,  seen  the  country  round, 
Fills  the  young  rustic  with  an  uncouth  awe, 
His  sire  with  pride,  when  on  a  winter's  night 
Its  clanging,  dissonant  bell  wakes  up  the  hills, 
And  to  the  lecture  calls  the  township  in. 
Then  while  the  orator — perchance  Divine 
From*  some  too  liberal,  half-suspected  desk ; 
Or  metaphysic  sage,  whose  thoughts,  grown  thin, 
Lacking  the  stimulus  the  public  gives 
Of  praise  and  pudding,  sudden  wax  robust 


CYRILLA.  219 

When  aired  upon  the  platform ;  poets  too, 
Who  scoring  down  in  grim  heroic  verse 
The  follies  of  the  times,  their  audience  spare, 
And  leave  each  set  of  listeners  with  the  thought 
Most  comforting,  that  all  of  mankind  else 
Wear  asses'  ears,  and  quite  as  loudly  bray  ; — 
Then  while  the  orator  wears  out  his  hour, 
The  social  cauldron  of  the'  busy  room 
Boils  fast,  but  yet  repressed,  till  at  the  close 
Its  pent-up  treasures  flow  o'er  all  the  crowd. 
Then  gossips  mix,  then  secrets  owners  change, 
Then  multitudinous  news  of  nurseries  fly ; 
And  in  sly  corners,  hid  from  dire  mammas, 
Sweet  hours  are  fixed,  when  Reuben  from  the  Hill 
Shall  meet  Clarinda,  with  the  skittish  bay 
Thrice  charged  with  furtive  oats,  and  o'er  the  lake 
Shall  ring  the  steel-shod  sledge. 

From  village  school 

He  long  had  passed,  but  yet  the  master's  skill 
Might  guide  his  thoughts,  when  by  the  winter's 

hearth 

He  traced  the  plots  of  Euclid,  and  the  path 
Of  ships  upon  the  unknown  ocean  drew. 


220  CYRILLA. 

Stoop-shouldered  and  pedantic  was  the  sage, 
And  shy,  and  starting  at  a  sudden  voice, 
Or  sudden  step — the  more  if  female  too — 
And  full  of  musings  :  of  the  wrinkled  earth, 
How  many  countless  ages  growing  cold, 
And  fit  for  use  of  man ;  of  new-born  lands, 
Marsupial  -tenanted,  and  full  of  strange 
And  unfit  couplings  of  the  mammal  race, 
As  not  yet  ripe  for  view ;  and  of  the  stars 
That  once  illumed  the  spaces  where  the  dark 
Of  void  abyss  now  mocks  the  straining  sight ; 
And  of  the  era  when  the  constant  Bear 
Shall  wheel  a  larger  circle,  and  shall  dip 
Beneath  the  icy  sea,  and  the  clear  Lyre 
Shall  burn  throughout  the  year,  the  polar  star  ; 
And  in  the  summer  midnight  all  the  north 
Shall  see  the  wonders  of  the  Southern  Cross. 
Nor  had  he  small  pretense  of  ancient  tongue, 
But  mourning  much  the  village  so  remote 
From  Library,  where  folios  kept  the  key 
Of  long-passed  customs,  in  default  of  which 
The  verse  of  Persius  seems  but  farrago, 
And  Plato  a  sublime,  profound,  obscure. 


CYRILLA.  221 

So  guided,  with  much  wheat  his  mind  was  fed, 
Somewhat  perchance  with  chaff;   but  this  the 

clear 

And  patient  thought  out-winnowed  for  itself. 
And  Nature  in  him  kindly  wrought,  that  he 
Might  not  uncouth  become,  or  turn  to  dreams, 
Or  waste  away  in  mists  of  reverie. 
But  Knowledge  nobly  fed  his  daily  thoughts, 
Kept  all  his  soul  at  work,  that  while  the  plough 
Traced  up  the  furrow,  he  should  trace  a  truth  ; 
And  in  the  heats  of  harvest,  other  sheaves 
Than  those  of  barley  he  should  gather  in. 

The  fairest  field  of  all  the  fair  estate 

His  father  owned,  lay  in  the  river's  bend. 

Above,  a  mile  of  rapids,  and  below 

A  clear,  slow  flow  of  water :  all  the  bank 

Was  alder  set,  and  here  and  there  an  oak, 

From     which    all    day    the     shrill     kingfisher 

swooped, 

And  thrush  at  dawn  and  twilight  sang ;  across 
Were  sloping  flats,  and  parks  of  meadow  land, 
In  which,  knee-deep  in  richness,  countless  kine 


222  CYRILLA. 

Strayed  at  tlieir  will ;  and  cottages  all  white 
Peeped  from  green  clumps  of  trees,  and  far  behind 
Low  lines  of  hills  arose,  enfolding  all. 

One  evening  here,  when  the  last  furrow  turned, 
His  oxen's  heads  stretched  homeward,  the  quick 

stroke 

Of  rower  smote  his  ear,  and  down  the  rifts 
Of  the  swift  river  shot  his  cousin's  boat, 
From  Edge,   five   miles   above.      "  You  surely 

stop," 

He  cried,  to  which,  "  You're  right,  no  other  end 
Had  I  in  coming  ;  so  my  freight  commands, 
These  ladies  two,  who  think  it  rarest  sport 
That  I  should  pull  an  hour's  easy  oar, 
To  bring  them  here,  when  scarce  a  summer's  day, 
And  four  such  men  as  I,  could  take  them  back, 
On  the  same  highway." 

Then,  with  dexterous  hand, 
He  shot  the  skiff  within  a  little  cove, 
Where  the  smooth  marge  an  easy  landing  gave. 
And  quick,  Seborne :  "  To  me  will  fall  the  freight, 
While  you  insure  the  safety  of  the  craft 


CYRILLA. 


223 


Within  the  harbor :  such  the  river's  rules, 
Which  here  I  claim  to  follow." 

"  This  is  he," 

Said  George  of  Edge,  "  whom,  ladies,  I  described 
To  you  a  mile  above — a  bashful  youth  ! 
But  now  I  think  he  knows  the  water-nymphs, 
Who  teach  him,  in  these  shy,  sequestered  spots, 
Such  arts  of  rhetoric  as  my  three  campaigns 
On  city  carpets  may  have  failed  to  give. 
0  fairest  freight  that  e'er  the  river  bore ! 
Be  pleased  to  know  your  guardian  !" 

Bowing  low, 

He,  thus  acquainted,  led  them  up  the  bank, 
Whom  soon  the  oarsman  followed.     Then  the 

yoked 

And  patient  oxen,  stretching  forth  their  heads, 
Lowed  softly  toward  them,  threading  through 

the  lane ; 

Such  avenue  as  who  upon  thy  banks, 
Sweet  flowing  river,  has  not  learned  to  love  ? 
O'erarched  with  elms  that  checked  the  noonday 

glare ; 


224:  CYRILLA. 

A  winding  maze  of  blackberry  and  rose, 
And  purpling  elder ;  worn  with  feet  of  kine, 
And  giving  frequent  glimpse  of  miles  of  meads. 
Soon  looms  the  sturdy  barn  upon  the  view, 
Four-square ;  a  mass  of  red — the  steep-sloped 

roof 

Mossed  o'er  with  many  summers  ;  in  the  peaks 
The  diamonds  whence  the  haunting  swallows  fly ; 
Beyond,  the  orchard  ;  last,  the  glistening  house, 
A  miracle  of  whiteness  :  such  bequest 
Of  rustic  taste,  from  heir  to  heir  has  come, 
Since  first  the  dusky  Indian  fled  the  wood, 
And  left  his  wigwam  as  a  warning  mark, 
Which  all  might  shun  to  copy.     Reason  else 
Is  none  for  this  eternal  glare  of  white  ; 
Though  yet  my  memory  ever  holds  it  dear, 
As  first  and  farthest  landmark,  when  I  look 
Back  o'er  the  fading  slopes  of  infancy. 

Then  round  the  well-spread  table,  in  the  dusk, 
They  told  the  day's  events :  how  George  pro 
posed 
The  voyage  down  the  rapids ;  Lucy,  then, 


CYRILLA.  225 

Held  up  her  hands  in  fright,  but  soon  was  won 
To  grasp  the  project  by  some  dainty  lines 
From  out  the  "Lady  of  the  Lake,"  and  grown 
From  timid,  venturesome,  Cyrilla,  too, 
Sat  on  the  thwarts  unmoved  :  the  only  fear 
Of  both,  as  now  they  laughingly  confessed, 
Their  baggage.     "  Charming  care  to  me,"  said 

George  ; 

"  If  dashed  by  river  spray,  my  pardon  I 
Had  vainly  asked.     But  mostly  I  obtained 
Applause  by  steering  through  the  foaming  rifts 
So  smoothly,  that  the  songs  the  Naiads  sang 
Missed  not  a  quaver,  nor  were  rudely  shaken." 
And  then  Sebome :  "  Such  songs,  I  dare  to  say, 
As  ne'er  the  wistful  stream  had  heard  till  then ; 
And  now  I  know  the  reason  that,  before 
Your  boat  appeared,  or  e'er  the  oars  were  heard, 
Sweet  murmurs  came  upon  the  northern  breeze, 
As  telling  of  unwonted  melodies  : 
And  vague  expectancies  filled  all  my  soul." 
To  which  Cyrilla  :  "  Surely,  I  believe 
As  George  has  said :  with  river-nymphs  you  talk, 
10* 


226  CYRILLA. 

Who  teach  you  flattering  arts."     "  But  if  you 

knew," 

He  said,  "  the  many  tongues  of  solitude, 
And  how  the  sense  is  sharpened  by  the  still 
And    lonesome    airs   that    o'er    the    meadows 

breathe, 

You  would  not  doubt  my  story.     But  if  you 
Will  sing  again  the  songs  that  down  the  stream 
Crept  softly,  as  if  loth  in  their  own  sound 
To  lose  what  followed  from  the  self-same  source, 
I  then  will  tell  you  if  I  heard  them  right, 
Or  if  the  north  wind  mocked  me." 

"To  the  same 

Guitar  I  then  will  sing,"  Cyrilla  said, 
"  That  you  may  have,  so  far,  the  benefit 
Of  a  resemblance  that  may  haply  stir 
Your  arts  inventive ;  but  if  I  shall  say, 
'  I  heard  an  air  that  up  the  rushing  stream 
Ran  boldly,  as  if  glad  to  run  beyond 
The  dash  of  water  over  noisy  rocks,' 
And  then  shall  ask  you  to  repeat  the  lay, 
*  That  I  may  tell  you  if  I  heard  it  right, 


CYRILLA. 


227 


Or  if  the  south  wind  mocked  me,'  you  must 

sing!" 

And  George  replied:  "  He  blushes  as  if  caught; 
And  thus  may  ever  false  deceiver  fall !" 
But  then  Cyrilla  laughed  and  said,  "And  if 
He  say  he  heard  this  song  below  the  rifts, 
For  witness  I  shall  look  to  you  ;"  and  sang  : 

Before  the  morning  woke,  the  lark 

His  warblings  scattered  through  the  sky ; 

Till  night's  enfolding  deepest  dark, 
He  sang,  nor  knew  the  reason  why — 
Such  joy  disdains  a  reason  why. 

Sweet  winds  of  Spring,  that  hither  blow 
From  lands  of  Palm-tree,  warm  and  dry, 

Beat  back  the  hosts  of  northern  snow, 
And  we'll  not  ask  the  reason  why — 
Such  kindness  knows  no  reason  why. 

"  The  same,  the  very  same,"  Seborne  replied, 
"  And  yet  'tis  not ;  for  there  were  other  lines, 
Whose  words  I  caught  not,  yet  their  soul  and 
sense 


228  CYRILLA. 

Came  down  to  me  ;  a  moral  to  your  lay, 
As  fit  for  poets." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  she ; 

"  The  words  are  not  the  words  above  I  sang, 
Nor  do  I  add  a  moral  to  the  lay 
Which  haply  in  an  idle  hour  I  sing." 
"  And  right !"  said  George,  "  for  this  is  not  the 

mode 

By  which  the  poet  strikes  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  lives  to  other  times.     Let  each  one  frame 
A  moral  as  it  suits  him,  but  the  bard 
Sing  but  of  life  as  actually  it  lives — 
Of  nature,  simply.     If  the  passions  range 
Themselves  along  his  verse,  he  but  reviews 
Their  ranks  as  Captain — not  as  meddlesome 
And  curious  gazer,  who  exclaims,  *  Oh  !  see,' 
And  *  Wonderful  to  look  upon  !'     Let  each 
Admire  as  it  may  please  him  best,  and  I 
Will  swear  by  Homer,  who  not  once  complains, 
Or  sheds  a  tear,  or  drops  a  moral  saw, 
Though  heroes  fall  by  dozens  ;  though  the  brave 
And  dear  Patroclus  lie  amid  the  dust ; 


CYRILLA.  229 

Though  bright  Sarpedon,  born  of  Jove,  beneath 
A  murderous  lance  expire,  and  Priam's  sons, 
Up  to  great  Hector,  die  the  cruel  death ! 
Enough  of  glory,  if  the  reader  mourn. 
But  if  you  heard  a  moral  in  the  winds 
To  southward  sweeping,  let  it  feel  the  air 
Once  more,  though  much  I  fancy  that  the  breeze 
That  brought  it  to  you,  bore  it  thence  again." 

Seborne  replied  :  "  Your  lecture,  learned,  wise, 
Had  given  me  time  to  frame  a  brace  of  songs, 
Had  I  known  none,  or  breezes  been  less  kind  ; 
And  this  was  not  the  song  Miss  Vernon  sang, 
Nor  worthy  her — but  much  the  self-same  air, 
May,  if  she  will,  accompany ;  and  sang : 

The  friend  I  left  but  yesternight, 

To-day  seems  distant,  cold,  and  strange ; 

The  little  space  from  light  to  light 

Hath  wrought  a  sad  and  endless  change — 
For  change  comes  not  to  such  a  change. 


230  CYRILLA. 

Dear  Heart,  in  whom  my  heart  I  see, 
Shall  any  Tempter  tempt  to  range  ? 

Content  am  I  to  love  but  thee ; 

Nor  more  could  flow  from  any  change — 
Ah !  what  return  from  such  a  change ! 

"  Unkind  were  you,"  Cyrilla  then  replied, 
"  To  say  that  this  was  not  the  song  you  heard, 
By  northern  breezes  blown,  else  had  I  used 
The  arts  you  practise,  and  assumed  them  mine." 
"  This  is  the  Naiad  who  inspires  him," 
Said  George.     "  No  mortal  maiden  tunes  his  lay, 
And  many  vouch  for  this.     For  to  the  fair, 
Abroad,  at  home,  at  church,  at  eveiy  feast, 
Full  cold  is  Robert ;  not  the  veriest  flirt 
Has  ever  claimed  him  hers  a  summer  hour. 
What  would  I  give  for  such  immunity  ? 
Or  failing  this,  the  other  dear  extreme, 
The  faithful  heart,  in  whom  my  heart  to  see 
Were  blest  contentment,  and  to  her  the  same  ?" 
"Nay,  George,  you  jest,"  said  Lucy;  "are  you  fit 
For  such  contentment — yon,  who  love  to  play 
With  female  hearts,  and  idly  reckon  up 


CYRILLA.  231 

How  many  here,  how  many  there,  have  given 
The  proofs  that  you  were  tenderly  beheld  ? 
But  as  for  me,  I  think  the  proofs  are  forged  ; 
The  scented  letters  are  but  party-notes  ; 
And  well  I  know  who  plucks  the  rose  to-day, 
To  show  its  leaves  to-morrow  with  a  sigh : 
'  Ah !  were   she   here,  who   gave   this   flower   to 
me!'" 

Thus  answered  Lucy,  shaking  back  her  curls, 

A  sweet  defiance  darting  from  her  eyes, 

As  if  to  say  :  "  You  make  no  sport  of  me  ; 

Or  if  you  do,  no  farther  shall  you  stray." 

For  such  the  rumor  ran,  that  if  the  pair 

Were  not  on  lovers'  footing,  plain  expressed, 

Why,  then,  as  gossips  talk,  they  should  be  so. 

The  which  Cyrilla  told  to  her  that  night, 

In  the  great  chamber,  in  the  final  words 

Of  that  young-lady  talk,  which,  when  begun 

On  such  affairs  by  heads  on  pillows  laid, 

Oft  in  the  midnight  hour  awakes  papa, 

Who,  dimly  conscious,  robbers  fears  ;  perchance 

Calls  through  the  house,  "  Who's  there  ?"    So  these 


232  CYRILLA. 

In  the  great  chamber  talked  ;  the  hangings  waved, 
And  trembled  to  the  zephyrs  playing  through ; 
The  moonbeams  slid  between  the  rustling  vines 
That  o'er  the  windows  hung,  and  paved  the  floor 
With  silver  arabesque,  and  the  faint  stir 
Of  folded  kine  crept  softly  in  ;  and  one 
Denied,  as  who  has  not  denied,  when  urged? 
The  other  with  a  battery  of  facts 
Resistless  charged.     The  fort  is  doomed  to  fall 
Where  traitor  lurks  ;  for  Lucy  longed  to  tell 
Cyrilla  of  her  heart,  the  more  that  she 
Were  then  most  safe  in  George's  love,  for  else 
Cyrilla  might  have  smiled ;  but  honor  now 
Would  bind  her  fast  to  Lucy's  side,  and  check 
Advance  of  the  bold  warrior  George,  who  now 
Unconscious  slumbered,  nor  had  lost  his  sleep 
For  such  slight  cause.     The  tears  that  Lucy  shed  ; 
Bright  nectar  of  her  overflowing  heart ; 
Soon  fled  away ;  and  then  a  passing  bird — 
What  else  might  spy  amid  such  sanctity  ? — 
Had  well  observed  the  wondrous  wise  advice 
Of  maid  to  maid,  on  such  momentous  theme. 
Less  must  she  love,  but  more  must  she  command 


CYRILLA.  233 

His  worship  :  from  her  far-off  maiden  throne, 
With  unseen  forces,  draw  him  up  ;  but  she 
Must  not  in  aught  descend,  or  let  him  read 
The  index  of  her  soul.     If  he  were  cold, 
She  must  not  sadden  :  not  as  meadows  show 
Black  shades  of  clouds  that  fly  beneath  the  sun, 
Must  she  be  gloomed  when  hid  from  sight  of  him. 
If  haply  he  might  see  his  name  were  prized — 
This  were  the  far  extent,  for  love  is  apt 
To  cool,  if  meeting  first  too  much  response. 
And  much  more  sapience,  growing  still  in  weight, 
Till  from  the  distant  belfry  sounded  "  Two," 
And  the  spring  cocks  began  to  hoarsely  crow. 
But  then  as  Lucy,  burdened  with  advice, 
Slipt  into  sleep,  a  last  and  little  word 
Rose  to  the  air — "  I  love  him,  as  he  knows." 

But  when  the  morning  from  the  distant  hills 
Stept  redly  forth,  unclouded,  all  the  house 
Rose  to  the  matin  service,  well  performed 
With  reverent  reading  of  the  Word,  and  prayer. 
And  then  the  father  and  the  mother  sat 
At  the  long  table,  looking  o'er  its  length, 


234  CYRILLA. 

Each  at  the  other ;  at  the  side  of  each, 

The  happy  children  of  the  bounteous  farm, 

And  the  three  guests,  to  whom  Seborne  proposed 

Whatever  pleasure  that  might  fit  the  day — 

The  journey  to  the  mountains,  or  the  ride 

To  where  the  brook  in  shivering  cascades 

Falls  down  the  piny  side  of  Cloudycrown ; 

A  sail  upon  the  river,  and  to  add 

To  this,  to  land  three  miles  below,  and  view 

The  ruins  of  a  fort,  whose  shady  nooks 

Once  swarmed  with  musketeers,  who  kept  at  bay 

A  sloop  surcharged  with  red-coats,  till  the  rouse 

Of  all  the  country-side  compelled  to  strike 

Saint  George's  flag. 

This  pleased  the  party  best ; 
"  And  haply,"  said  Cyrilla,  "  we  shall  see 
The  Naiad,  if  she  hear  the  wonted  roll 
Of  the  broad  wheels,  along  the  tremulous  bank, 
Of  the  ox-wagon.     Do  not  say  me  no, 
Or  think  it  trivial  wish  that  in  such  wain 
I  much  have  wished  to  travel ;  not  for  long, 
'Tis  true,  for  much  I  fear  the  rugged  path 


CYRILLA.  235 

And  unaccustomed  jolt — yet  who  has  not 
Fair  picture  seen  of  wagon  laden  down 
With  group  of  vintagers  or  harvest-girls, 
By  patient  oxen  slowly  drawn,  whose  necks 
Milk  white,  obedient  bear  the  yoke,  but  firm 
They  plant  their  hoofs  within  the  faithful  ground, 
As  sure  of  sturdy  succor  there." 

Seborne 

Replied  :  "  The  chestnuts  at  the  door  deny 
That  you  should  favor  the  slow  foot  of  ox. 
Nor  may  we  lightly  lose  the  morning  breeze." 
But  she :  "  Thus  ever  fade  romantic  dreams, 
And  us  the  country  soon  will  hence  return 
To  dusty  life  amid  the  city's  walls, 
Arcadia  not  yet  fully  felt ;  for  I 
Had  dreamed  to  touch  the  plough,  to  ride  in  cart, 
To  bind  a  sheaf,  to  reap  the  standing  corn, 
And  scatter  seed  upon  the  fresh-turned  earth ; 
But  all  am  I  forbid,  and  rustic  ways 
Fly  from  my  path — but  I  shall  catch  them  yet." 

But  these  complaints  were  lost  in  air,  when  now 
The  chestnuts  sprang  along  the  shady  lane, 


236  CYRILLA. 

And  dashed  the  morning  diamonds  from  the  grass. 
From  off  the  meadows  newly  mown,  the  lark 
Rose,  and  with  poised  wings  across  their  path, 
Clear  singing,  flew.     The  summer  birds  above 
Called  to  each  other ;  and  across  the  stream, 
Now  silver  shining  through  a  belt  of  trees, 
The  quarrier's  rude  refrain  from  out  the  hills, 
Far  distant,  floated,  softened  down  to  song. 

Then  on  the  margin  of  the  stream  the  boat 
Received  them,  white,  and  glistening  in  the  sun, 
And  spotless  as  its  sails,  which  first  Seborne 
Shook  out,  and  hauled  and  fastened  without  reef — 
A  shapely  flat  from  gaff  to  boom  ;  and  then, 
To  all  their  seats  apportioned,  he  sat  down, 
And  steered  the  willing  boat,  that  o'er  the  waves 
Flew  lightly. 

But  the  maidens  docile  sat, 
As  on  an  element  of  unknown  fear, 
Which  they  are  wise  who  well  conciliate, 
Nor  tempt  its  unroused  powers.     Diverse  were 
they, 


CYRILLA.  237 

Yet  both  alike  in  fairness — oft  Seborne 
Had  Lucy  seen,  the  pride  of  ancient  Edge, 
Favored  by  young  and  old,  and  worthy  she 
The  love  of  all,  who  all  sincerely  loved. 
The  sick  her  praises  sang,  who  with  her  bore 
A  welcome  air  of  health  ;  she  seemed  to  shine 
A  healing  star  amid  the  darkest  nights 
Of  weary  folk  in  mortal  anguish.     Light 
Her  step  to  such,  and  bringing  hope  of  rest. 
Much  cause  had  he  to  thank  her,  for  if  strange 
And  shy  the  village  called  him,  she  took  up 
The  welfare  of  his  name,  praised  what  he  knew, 
And  wished  that  she  but  knew  as  much,  and  they 
Might  wish  the  same,  were  they  but  wise  to  wish ; 
And  other  such,  as  women  love  to  talk, 
Defending  those  assailed ;  though  much  she  blamed 
Him  to  himself  in  friendly  argument, 
But  with  a  comic,  half-relenting  smile, 
As  all  to  purpose  none ;  "for  who  could  turn 
A  stubborn  tree,  that  in  the  shade  persists 
To  grow,  nor  yields  except  to  axe  and  fire  ?" 
And  much  he  loved  her ;  not  with  vague  alarm, 
Not  with  strange  leapings  of  the  heart  and  pulse  ; 


238  CYRILLA. 

Nor  throbs  of  soul  in  early  morning,  when, 
From  Night  and  Nothing  waked,  the  eager  thought 
Quick  reaches  out  for  something  to  recall 
Itself  to  joyous  life — then  if  the  maid 
Were  pictured  to  the  soul  at  eventide, 
She  first  appears  to  welcome  it  to  life, 
New  rising,  robed  in  charms,  and  breathing  warm 
Of  love,  and  sighs,  and  scarcely  hoped  consent. 
Not  thus  he  loved  her ;  clear  and  well  defined 
His  love,  he  could  have  taken  it  apart, 
And  pictured  forth  in  strict  detail  the  whole. 
And  such  can  rarely  grow,  and  rarely  wane, 
When  once  the  fair  guest-chamber  of  the  soul 
Is  filled  with  it.     And  happy  they  who  find 
Such  tenant  for  their  heart,  for  thus  they  shun 
The  storms  of  life,  its  ecstacy  and  pain ; 
There  jealousy  attacks  them  not — the  fire 
That  warms  them  burns  with  steady  equal  flame, 
Nor  soars  to  heaven  to  sink  in  ashes  cold  ; 
And  haunted  not  by  ghosts  of  former  joys, 
They  ever  breathe  the  pleasant  airs  of  peace. 
While  thus  she  sat,  her  simple  beauty  flowed 
Over  his  sense  like  crystal  stream  of  health, 


CYRILLA.  239 

Making  him  glad,  and  only  glad,  as  she 
Would  wish,  if  choosing. 

But  Cyrilla,  strange 

And  new,  as  if  from  other,  distant  sphere, 
Disturbed  his  soul :  for  not  as  other  maids 
She  seemed  to  him,  for  something  in  her  face 
Appealed  to  eyes  that  ne'er  before  had  looked 
From  out  his  heart ;  and  voices  came  from  her, 
And  spoke  to  ears  that  never  he  before 
Knew  he  possessed.     As  if  in  former  time, 
Before  this  present  life,  she  at  his  side 
Had  gone  through  some  great  peril,  or  had  spoke 
Some    passionate    words   of   nearness,   dear    she 

seemed, 

And  yet  more  distant  now,  than  all  the  maids 
Of  earth.     It  were  a  boldness  but  to  speak 
To  her :  to  take  her  hand  in  needful  courtesy, 
Were  daring  rashness. 

Not  the  wondrous  charm 
Was  lacking  there,  of  fairness  most  complete, 
As  who  shall  say  me  nay,  who  thinks  of  her, 


240  CYRILLA. 

Who  is — or  has  been — or  shall  yet  be,  his  ? 
And  such  her  fairness  seemed  to  him,  who  yet 
Up  to  that  hour  had  never  thought  of  maid, 
Save  as  a  tender,  pleasant,  kindly  friend, 
To  meet  upon  the  sunlight  side  of  life's 
Long  street,  when  weary  of  the  walk  in  shade, 
And  dull  procession  of  the  toilsome  crowd. 
And  as  the  boat — while  blew  the  western  wind — 
Shooting  by  dexterous  tack  from  bank  to  bank, 
Left  long  diagonal  of  babbling  wake, 
Her  eyes,  exploring  either  meadowed  shore, 
Would  oft  encounter  his,  which  then  the  course 
Viewed  more  intently :  not  as  if  abashed 
And  forced  to  turn  away ;  but  sudden  sense 
Of  joy,  that  might  too  joyful  prove,  and  turn 
To  pain,  compelled  him  ;  but  her  graceful  form 
He  scanned,  less  fearful ;  and  if  she  but  drooped 
Her  eyelids,  he  was  'ware  of  it  before 
They  fell,  and  quick  his  eager  eyes  regained 
Possession  of  her  face  ;  and  so  they  passed 
Three  miles  of  meadow,  until  Lucy  said, 
"  The  Fort !  "    and  rounding  to,  he  dropped  the 
sail. 


CYKILLA.  241 

And  scarcely  had  they  climbed  the  ruined  steps, 
And  reached  the  stone-bestrewed  and  earthern  floor, 
"Where  once  the  butt  of  musket  rang,  and  feet 
Of  sturdy  musterers  from  the  market-town 
Tramped  to  and  fro  in  martial  exercise, 
When  other  voices  reached  them  ;  then  Seborne 
Said :  "'Tis  the  merchant  and  his  wild  Malay, 
WTio  have  a  pic-nic  here,  as  if  a  type 
Of  that  bright  day  when  Asia  and  the  West 
Shall  greet  each  other.     Let  us  call  them  out, 
And  they  shall  bring  the  yellow  Hoang-Ho, 
To  mix  its  waves  with  blue  Connecticut. 

For  this  is  he,  a  summer  traveler,  who 
This  season  took  the  Cleveland  place,  that  lies 
A  mile  above — I  think,  the  fairest  house 
The  river  sees  in  all  its  long  descent. 
Its  owner  lives  in  town,  too  proud  to  sell, 
Too  poor  to  keep  in  order  as  he  likes 
To  see  it ;   therefore,  as  each  April  comes, 
He  flits,  and  draws  a  rental  from  the  rich, 
Whoever  comes  to  taste  its  summer  bloom. 
And  Beckford  is  the  last,  a  kindly  soul, 
11 


242  CTRILLA. 

Much  burned  with  Indian  suns,  a  bachelor, 

And  followed  by  an  olive,  tall  Malay, 

Than  whom  none  else  can  cook  his  rice  or  mix 

His  curry  ;  as  for  tea,  I  think  that  he 

Would  parch  with  thirst  before   that   he  would 

drink 

At  his  own  table,  any  other  cup 
Than  that  which  skillful  Apposam  had  mixed  ! " 

But  the  Malay's  quick  ear  behind  the  wall 
Anticipated  their  approach,  and  forth 
He  came,  and  called  his  master.     He,  a  man 
Of  portly  front,  appeared  :  a  picture  rich, 
Of  scarf,  and  coat,  and  button ;  solid  all, 
As  fits  substantial  men ;  but  tropic  airs 
Breathed  from  him,  and  he  looked  the  gorgeous 
East. 

Then,  salutations  made,  he  bade  them  walk 
Within  the  wall,  where  piles  of  rubbish  lay, 
Profusely  scattered ;  these  the  nimble  hand 
Of  the  swart  servant  soon  disposed  in  shape, 
Each  stone  and  shard  in  place,  and  o'er  them  all 
He  spread  soft  shawls,  and  all  the  party  sat 


CYRILLA.  243 

At  lunch  ;  and  many  stories  of  the  fort 

Passed  round,  perhaps  enlarged  by  lapse  of  time — 

Though    scarce  the  walls  were  bloodless,   and  a 

mound, 

Turf-grown,  upon  the  western  side,  disclosed 
And  honored  the  repose  of  six  brave  men. 

And  now  and  then  a  tale  of  the  far  East 

Was  told  by  Beckford ;  moderation  just 

He  showed,  nor  ever  tired  with  traveler's  talk ; 

But  tropic  air,  and  dress  of  wild  Malay, 

Sped  all  his  words,  and  while  he  talked,  they  saw 

The  minaret ;  the  Indian  City  ;  sand 

Of  tawny  desert  fringed  with  spicy  shore  ; 

Long  swells,  and  surging  waves  of  yellow  sea  ; 

The  wild  fantastic  piles  that  China  builds 

Of  palace,  house  ;  the  wondrous  Tartar  wall. 

Then  the  long  voyage  to  the  northern  line 

Of  Eastern  commerce,  where  the  summer  sun 

At  midnight  on  the  horizon  rolled,  and  rose 

Through  orange  tints  of  morning ;  on  the  shore 

Far  off  they  saw  the  huts  of  Samoieds, 

And  to  the  north  the  blink  of  endless  ice. 


244  CYRILLA. 

But  while  they  listened,  started  up  Seborne, 
And  said  :  "I  fear  the  march  of  yonder  cloud 
Low  at  the  west — it  grows  apace,  and  see, 
How  frequent  reft  by  lightning !"     Up  they  rose, 
And  filled  the  homeward  boats,  and  Beckford  said, 
"  Come,  let  us  try  a  race — perhaps  our  zeal 
Will  leave  the  storm  behind."     "  But  let  the  sheets 
Lie  in  your  hand,"  Seborne  replied;  "  the  flaws 
Strike  sudden  on  the  river,  and  if  fast, 
The  stubborn  sail  may  bring  you  on  your  beam, 
Or  haply  worse."     But  Beckford  said  :  "  Not  I, 
For  I  have  sailed  long  wastes  of  stormy  sea, 
Beyond  the  sight  of  land,  in  lesser  craft, 
Nor  ever  found  my  hand  too  slow  to  loose 
The  fastened  ropes,  when  down  the  hissing  gale 
Swept  from  the  darkened  cloud."     Then  up  the 

stream 

They  flew,  the  wind  athwart ;  from  side  to  side 
The  sharp  bows  cut  through  ridgy  rows  of  foam , 
And  still  the  boat  of  Beckford  led,  till  now, 
When  half  across  a  tack,  an  angry  flaw 
Struck  down  from  out  the  east,  right  in  the  brow 
Of  the  black  cloud  that  all  the  western  sky 


CYRILLA.  245 

Deformed,  and  swept  long  leagues  of  dust  and  rain 

Before  its  face.     Scarce  in  the  blinding  spray 

Was  half  the  ruin  seen,  for  all  Sebome 

Could  spy  amid  the  darkness  on  the  lee 

By  which  he  swiftly  drove,  was  a  white  waste 

Of  floating  sail ;  and  in  the  \vindy  roar, 

He  heard  the  mingled  tongues  of  west  and  east, 

Diverse,  but  like  in  tone — the  cry  for  help, 

That  makes  all  voices  kin.     "  Quick  to  the  helm," 

He  shouted,  "  George,  and  drive,  nor  try  to  turn, 

But  run  the  boat  to  shore  ;  a  house  is  near." 

Then  leaped  astern,  while  George  the  rudder  took, 

And  shaped  the  flying  madness  of  the  boat, 

'Mid  spray  and  rain,  till  on  the  clayey  shore 

It  sharply  struck,  and  safe,  with  dripping  haste, 

They  gained  a  farm-house. 

But  Seborne  alone, 

Amid  the  waters  seemed,  for  looking  round, 
Far  as  he  might,  o'er  swelling  mounds  of  foam, 
He  nothing  saw,  but  still  swam  boldly  on, 
Where  last  he  saw  the  sails  of  Beckford's  boat 
Flat  on  the  wave  ;  at  last,  through  choking  rain, 


246  CYRILLA. 

He  dimly  caught  it ;  then  again  more  near, 
And  nearer  still,  till,  clinging  to  the  mast, 
He  spied  the  swart  Malay,  who  loudly  shrieked, 
And  pointed  out  astern.     There  Beckford  fought, 
But  feebly,  with  the  waves  that  bore  him  down, 
And  once  had  all  engulfed  him  ;  but  he  rose 
With  final  rouse  of  will,  and  now  again 
Was  slowly  sinking,  and  had  risen  no  more  ; 
But  ere  he  passed  away,  the  sinewy  arm 
Stretched  by  Seborne,  had  clutched  him,  and  the 

slow 

And  dragging  lift  of  painful  strength  had  raised 
His  head  to  life  and  air.     Nor  was  there  need 
Of  caution  not  to  struggle  ;  helpless,  he, 
As  infant,  and  his  limbs  relaxed  and  numb  ; 
Then  with  the  current  combating,  Seborne 
Watched  for  the  drifting  boat  that  slowly  came, 
But  came  at  last,  and  on  its  welcome  side 
He  fastened  Beckford,  faintly  brought  to  life. 
But  he  unshipped  a  thwart,  and  used  as  oar, 
And  slowly  urged  the  wreck  before  the  storm, 
Until,  at  last,  the  shore  appeared,  and  safe 
They  stepped  on  land  ;  and  o'er  the  flooded  fields 


CYRILLA.  247 

And  miry  ways,  they  reached  the  farm-house,  where 
The  others  had  their  welcome  gained  ;  and  now  __ 
The  sturdy  hinds  were  setting  forth  with  George, 
To  try  the  watery  search. 

But  all  night  long, 

In  dreams  Cyrilla  shone  upon  Seborne, 
A  water-nymph  on  peaceful  current :  when 
It  dawned,  she  sank  in  storm  ;  and  faces  white 
Of  drowning  men  in  inky  depths  of  wave, 
Flashed  ghastly  on  his  sight.     A  restless  fear 
Shook  all  his  soul ;  and,  unrefreshed  he  rose, 
And  thoughts  of  peril  chased  across  his  mind ; 
But  at  the  early  table,  bright  and  fair 
The  maids  appeared,  and  talked  his  praise,  but  he 
Disowned  the  merit ;  then  the  hearty  form 
Of  Beckford,  gorgeous  as  a  June  parterre, 
Saluted  him  and  thanked  him  ;  but  he  bowed 
The  thanks  away,  and  made  a  lighter  thing 
Of  all  the  watery  toil,  than  if  with  breeze 
Of  summer  he  had  floated  in  his  boat, 
And  rescued  lady's  scarf,  blown  on  the  wave. 
But  when  said  George,  "  Good  by,  to-day  we  go," 


248  CYRILLA. 

And  Lucy  and  Cyrilla  said,  "  Good  by," 

He  knew  whence  came  the  sadness  that  oppressed 

His  heart  before  its  time  :  though  but  an  hour 

Cyrilla's  face  had  lighted  up  his  path ; 

Though  scarcely  had  he  passed  beyond  the  hedge 

Of  mere  acquaintance,  nor  had  earned  the  right 

To  think  of  her  as  friend ;  nor  might  expect 

To  live  within  her  memory  a  day  ; 

Yet  she  his  life  had  changed ;  and  though  he  now 

Might  never  see  her  more,  yet  he  was  not 

As  once  he  was,  before  the  maid  appeared ; 

Nor  when  they  parted,  did  his  soul  go  back 

To  where  it  once  reposed. 

The  peaceful  farm, 

And  all  the  bright,  green  affluence  of  the  meads, 
And  the  fair  river  flowing  to  the  sea, 
Seemed  to  his  eyes  to-day  a  waste  expanse 
Of  earth  and  water ;  but  to-morrow  they 
Might  glow  as  if  the  heavens  had  fallen  down, 
And  taken  their  place.     For  now  Seborne  was  two 
Distinct  and  separate  souls :  joyless  the  one, 
With  blank,  dull  eyes,  and  seeing  in  no  place 


CTRILLA.  249 

The  signs  of  life  and  hope  ;  its  throbs  were  pain, 
Itself  a  weight  upon  itself,  and  lone. 
The  other  saw  a  radiance  everywhere, 
That  lit  up  all  the  world :  through  cloudy  skies 
It  saw  the  sun  clear  shining ;  in  the  murk 
Of  night,  the  stars  beyond :  no  earthly  sound 
But  seemed  a  heavenly  note ;  the  very  air 
Played,  tremulous  with  delight,  and  but  to  live 
Were  pleasure,  if  the  same  bright  sense  might  last. 

But  still  his  outward  Jife  moved  on,  as  life 

Must  move,  unless  it  utterly  sink  away, 

Though  nature  shock  with  changes ;  though  the 

night 

Bring  death  of  loved  ones  in  the  house  ;  or  hearts, 
Once  faithful,  slip  away,  and  empty  leave, 
And  broken,  the  fair  shrines  where  once  they  dwelt. 
To-day  the  haying ;  then  the  harvest  moon 
Rose  o'er  the  stubble-field  his  arm  had  reaped ; 
And  then  in  goodly  rows  the  shocks  of  corn 
Told  his  industrious  husbandry  ;  till  came 
The  autumn  nights,  and  sowed  the  ground  with 

frost. 

11* 


250  CYRILLA. 

Then  in  his  labors  pausing,  more  there  hung 

The  cloud  upon  his  soul ;  and  on  the  bank 

Of  the  blue  river,  seaward  flowing,  he 

Sat  often,  musing  much  ;  and  Beckford  came 

One  day  to  give  a  parting  greeting ;  he 

Had  full  outstaid  the  season  ;  and  his  chair 

In  dingy  city  office  waited  him. 

He  who  had  never  dreamed  of  sentiment, 

But  lived  a  life  like  gorgeous  tropic  flower, 

That  drinks  in  all  of  light  and  air  it  can, 

Had  watched  Seborne  with  curious  eye,  and  seen 

The  warpings  of  his  soul,  and  from  the  heights 

Or  depths  he  occupied,  had  pitied  him ; 

And  finding  him,  to-day,  upon  the  bank, 

Said,  as  with  random  shot :  "  You  miss  the  girls, 

Who  made  the  river  fairer  than  itself, 

When  in  your  boat  they  sailed  ?" 

Then  said  Seborne : 

"  I  know  not  what  I  miss  ;  or  if  I  miss 
The  faces  that  I  saw  but  for  a  day — 
I  think  I  only  miss  the  fair  content 
Smiled  by  this  stream  upon  me,  formerly." 


CYRILLA.  251 

And  Beckford  said :  "  My  logic  teaches  this — 

There  falls  no  loss  without  a  cause :  Content 

May  fly  in  thousand  ways ;  but  if  it  fly, 

You  must  pursue  ;  itself  it  turns  not  back. 

But  can  a  river  always  please  a  man  ? 

Or  fields,  or  farms,  however  fair  they  be  ? 

And  will  you  waste  the  unreturning  years 

Of  Youth  among  the  meadows  and  the  hills  ? 

These  give  not  knowledge  :  if  they  lend  a  sense 

To  see  with  clearer  eye  whence  beauty  springs, 

This  is  their  final  use  ;  but  you  should  rove, 

And  mix  with  busy  life.     The  city  street 

Will  more  inform  with  life  and  hope,  than  this 

Dull  picture  of  the  meads — an  office  chair 

Will  teach  you  more  of  Man.     But  better  still 

Is  travel ;  and  no  matter  where  you  rove, 

The  eye  instructs  the  mind  ;  and  though  you  talk 

With  Turk  or  Tartar,  more  the  busy  sense 

Will  learn,  than  if  'twere  cooped  among  the  shelves 

Of  library,  or  slept  amid  the  vales 

Of  some  such  farm  as  this." 

"  A  cure,  indeed, 
For  listless  or  for  wounded  soul,"  Seborne 


252  CTRILLA. 

Eeplied.     "  Ulysses,  in  his  wanderings,  learned 

The  ways  of  many  men,  and  ever  since 

The  school  has  prospered ;  but  am  I  a  king, 

Who  only  needs  to  speak,  to  line  the  shore 

With  ships,  and  choose  the  stateliest  ?    If  he  go 

With  drift  of  fortune,  all  will  follow  fast ; 

And  if  he  sail  around  the  weary  globe 

For  very  sport,  his  escort  still  will  hold. 

For  travel  is  a  liberal  study.     I 

Lack  most  the  wherewithal  to  join  the  school, 

And  with  the  stranger,  there  is  only  one 

That  can  interpret  well :  the  pocket  god, 

Who  blesses  only  in  his  going.     He 

Is  not,  as  yet,  among  the  deities 

Who  rule  my  life." 

But  Beckford  smiled,  and  said : 
"  No  king  am  I,  and  yet  I  have  a  ship, 
And  more  than  one.     The  more  unfortunate 
Am  I,  amid  such  times  as  these,  when  ships 
Lie  still  by  dozens,  rotting  at  the  docks, 
And  in  the  summer  sun  the  tarry  seams 
Start  open,  and  the  blistered  cordage  cracks. 


C TRILL A.  253 

But  some  are  busy — one  for  China  sails 
Within  a  month.     To-morrow  I  must  go, 
And  be  her  slave  :  to  invoice,  manifest, 
Devote  my  soul :  and  you  shall  sail  in  her, 
And  though  you  saved  my  life,  I  will  not  force 
A  favor  on  you,  but  as  man  with  man, 
Will  pay  for  service.     You  can  count  a  gain 
Or  loss,  as  well  as  any,  and  can  sell 
A  cargo.     This  is  all  the  art  you  need, 
'  To  get  the  highest,  safely.'     I  will  teach 
Details  in  time.     For  you  shall  merchant  turn, 
Nor  shall  it  less  an  honor  prove,  than  if 
You  led  New  England  with  a  dreamy  pen. 
For  once  I  read  that  wise  Pythagoras, 
When  taunted  by  the  Greeks,  '  philosopher ' 
And  '  dreamer,'  said  in  answer,  '  He  could  rise 
To  be  a  merchant ;'  straightway  sallied  out, 
And  bought  of  figs  a  cargo — I  suppose 
On  credit ;  sailed  to  Egypt :  there  he  sold 
The  venture  at  a  profit,  and  returned 
Rich  and  respected.     Riches  always  make 
Philosophy  respectable,  and  I 
Believe  that  naught  else  does :  such  sorry  stuff 


254  C TRILL A. 

We  get  from  paupers  in  the  State — but  now 

I  own  myself  beyond  my  depth,  for  I 

Am  only  skilled  in  teas,  and  dyes,  and  wine. 

But  quit  the  stream,  and  if  the  maids  remain 

Within  your  fancy — who  can  drive  them  out  ? — 

Let  fancy  bear  them  forth  upon  the  seas, 

And  they  shall  make  you  hopeful :  you  shall  look 

Through  darkest  storm  with  courage,  if  they  smile. 

And  may  your  chance  be  happier  far  than  mine  ; 

For  she  who  lit  my  life  when  on  the  sea*, 

Though  I  had  never  spoke  of  love,  and  she 

Knew  never  of  the  peace  her  image  brought 

When  rising  to  my  soul  in  stormiest  hours, 

In  one  long  absence  died ;  a  story  old 

It  is,  and  yet  I  never  loved  again — 

Till  now  grown  careless,  every  maid  appears 

Far  different  from  the  maids  who  shared  my  youth  ; 

Nor  aught  afraid,  or  shy,  but  free  to  say 

Whate'er  they  wish,  from  which,  though  late,  I 

find 

That  I  am  past  the  hour  that  charms  a  maid. 
But  now  good-by,  and  you  shall  surely  come." 


C TRILL A.  255 

Then  in  the  hasty  twilight  Beckford  went ; 
And  slowly  homeward  walked  Seborne,  and  mused 
Upon  the  future,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
That  all  his  soul  enlarged,  as  to  the  East 
His  fancy  called  him  ;  then  a  vision  came 
Of  power  and  wealth  from  distant  Indies  snatched, 
And  dear  rewards  at  home,  the  complement 
Of  all  his  hopes  ;  but  this  as  quickly  fled 
Before  the  trenchant  sword  of  reason  ;  this 
Held  sway  all  night,  and  morning  brought  again 
Fair  hopes  ;  and  thus  his  mind  divided  rule 
Oppressed,  until  at  last,  he  said  :  "  'Tis  best 
That  I  should  go,  and  let  what  will  be,  be." 

From  home  'tis  easy  for  the  young  to  fly, 

When  Fortune  calls  them  forth.     Who  does  not 

know 

The  pride  of  youth,  that  thinks  the  voice  that  calls 
Has  never  called  before,  as  now,  to  them  ? 
*  Did  yonder  graybeard  ever  hear  the  cry, 
Yet  come  to  what  he  is  ?     The  form  I  see, 

• 

That  brightly  leads  me  on,  he  coldly  views, 
Or  sees  it  not  at  all :  and  why  but  that 


256  CYRILLA. 

To  me  is  given  a  higher  privilege — 
To  know  the  joys  of  Fortune  ?'     A  decade 
Shall  pass,  and  dull  his  gaze — another  race 
Succeeds  with  equal  hopes.     Immortal  she 
Who  fools  them  all ! 

Seborne  the  city  street 

With  unaccustomed  footstep  walked  ;  the  crowd 
Of  eager  faces  filled  him  with  amaze, 
And  most,  because  unending,  as  a  stream 
By  countless  fountains  fed  ;  their  look  was  strange, 
As  if  each  soul  were  self-concentrated  ; 
And  quick  their  walk,  and  skillful  trained  to  turn, 
Nor  jostle  'mid  the  sinuous  rush.     The  roar 
Undying  through  the  night  disturbed  his  dreams, 
And  roused  to  early  waking ;  and  the  airs 
That  through  the  window  came,  were  not  the  airs 
That  o'er  the  meadows  swept  at  morning  :  these 
Were  laden  down  with  human  histories, 
And  all  their  freshness  had  been  snatched  away. 

Yet  one  fair  thought  made  all  the  city  peace, 
That  here  Cyrilla  dwelt ;  but  not  in  peace 


CYKILLA.  257 

The  thought  endured,  for  pains  of  sad  despair 
Made  haste  to  follow  ;  and  with  troubled  heart 
He  stood  within  her  presence  ;  he  surprised 
To  find  her  not  surprised  ;  for  conscious  he, 
And  conscious  overmuch,  to  that  extent 
That  he  might  think  her  conscious  too,  who  saw 
His  face  with  kindly  eyes,  but  only  kind ; 
But  still,  that  they  were  kind  so  soon,  was  much. 

Cyrilla  talked  of  blue  Connecticut, 

Asked  of  the  household  by  the  flowing  stream, 

And  how  was  Beckford,  and  "She  wished  papa 

But  knew  him  ;  but  New  York  was  large,  and  kept 

So  many  always  strangers  ;  much  she  liked 

His  large  free  talk,  and  gorgeous  tropic  air, 

In  him  so  natural,  and  wholly  free 

Of  affectation.     She  had  heard  from  George 

But  lately,  and  from  Lucy  ;  Lucy,  most 

Of  all  the  maidens,  lovable  by  maids — 

And  this  her  rarest  praise — a  sweeter  flower 

Had  never  grown  upon  New  England  soil." 

Through  this  they  grew  acquaint,  and  wandered  off 

To  other  talk,  and  thus  the  half-hour  passed. 

. 


258  CYRILLA. 

But  leaving  where  she  dwelt,  through  doubt  and 

fear,    . 

He  could  not  call  himself  unwelcome  ;  this 
Took  half  the  darkness  from  his  soul — the  rest 
Remained,  to  yield  a  hiding-place  to  all 
The  uncouth  shapes  that  vex  a  young  man's  heart, 
When  in  the  springing  time  of  love  he  lives, 
Not  knowing  how  he  loves,  or  by  whom  loved. 
Then  found  he  Beckford,  hid  in  rosy  heaps 
Of  glowing  scarfs,  while  at  the  vessel's  side 
He  chode  the  captain  for  his  long  delay. 
"And  I  am  idler  too,"  broke  in  Seborne  ; 
And  Beckford  greeted  him,  and  said:  "The  ship 
Must  lie  a  fortnight  yet,  the  captain  says, 
And  after  that,  how  long !  for  never  yet 
Did  captain  keep  a  promised  sailing  day." 
Thus  Beckford  growled  ;  but  then  the  sailor  said  : 
"The  wind  that's  best  is  not  yet  hatched,  and  I 
Will  beat  the  ship  that  sails  to-day,  or  else 
Will  forfeit  all  my  share."     Then  said  Seborne  : 
"The  time  is  given  to  me  that  you  should  teach 
The  mysteries  of  the  manifest,  that  I 
May  rightly  learn  the  rare  device  of  trade." 


CTRILLA.  259 

So  all  that  day  he  bent  with  studious  eye 
O'er  formulas  of  trade,  until  his  brain 
Grew  cloudy  with  excess  of  learning  ;  then 
To  dine  with  Beckford,  and  an  evening's  stroll 
Down  the  gay  avenue,  where  the  rushing  crowd, 
And  roaring  whirl  of  wheels,  and  miles  of  lamps, 
Aroused  him  with  delight.     "  To-night  the  lark 
Of  Italy  sings,"  said  Beckford;  "let  us  go." 
They  entered  as  the  curtain  rose  ;  the  band 
Of  Druids  thronged  upon  the  stage,  and  sang 
Of  vengeance  to  the  Roman,  and  they  passed; 
But  with  the  Priestess  soon  returned,  and  she 
Sang  Casta  Diva.     Like  a  bright  parterre 
In  the  dead  calm  of  summer  noon,  before 
The  thunder  breaks,  the  circled  audience  held 
Itself  in  silence,  till  at  last  applause 
In  whirlwinds  burst.  With  the  sweet  song  entranced, 
Seborne  bent  down  his  head,  and  mused  awhile, 

until 

The  noisy  babble  of  the  gay  entr'acte 
Aroused  him  to  the  world,  and  looking  up 
He  saw  Cyrilla ;  with  her,  Lucy.     Then 
Came  George,  fresh  smiling,  with  them  both  shook 

hands, 


260  CTRILLA. 

And  said  :  "You'll  join  us  in  the  box  ?"    Seborne 
Chanced  to  Cyrilla's  side.     Between  the  scenes 
They  talked ;  and  when  the  martial  trumpets  blew, 
And  when  the  two  fair  women,  like  in  love, 
Alike  in  noble  anger,  and  alike 
In  the  sweet  yearn  toward  innocent  infancy, 
Fell  to  each  other  with  sad,  passionate  song, 
Her  kindling  eye  and  glowing  cheek  aroused 
His  dawning  soul ;  another  step  his  heart 
Advanced  toward  courage  ;    For  she  feels  as  I, 
He  whispered  to  himself,  and  fearfully 
He  nursed  the  thought,  and  breathed  the  balmy 

airs 
That  floated  from  her,  with  a  blameless  mind. 

But  parting  in  the  lobby,  Lucy  said : 
"We  came  but  hastily,  but  we  stay  awhile; 
Come  you  and  see  us,  and  Cyrilla,  too, 
Our  hostess,  seconds  our  request.     Full  soon 
You  go  to  sea,  and  then  who  knows  how  long 
Before  we  see  you  ?     But  before  you  go, 
Charm  not  the  ears  of  George  with  idle  talk  ; 
Too  well  he  loves  to  wander.     Should  he  go, 


CYRILLA.  261 

The  dreadful  uncle  of  the  story-book 

Would  clip  his  portion."     Then  a  finger  shook 

At  George,  who  laughed,  and  drew  a  closer  arm. 

But  one  day  Beckford  said :  "  The  vessel  sails 

To-morrow,  if  I  live  ;  the  long  delay 

Hath  but  one  compensation,  that  it  keeps 

You  here,  whom  I  shall  miss  ;  but  now  the  times 

Brook  not  a  longer  stay  ;  the  wind  blows  south 

With  steady  purpose  ;  what  the  cargo  lacks 

Of  fullness,  let  it  lack  ;  to-night,  good  by 

To  your  fair  friends  be  said  :  if  younger  I, 

And  forced  to  leave  such  pleasant  smiles,  to  sail 

To  the  underworld,  why  then,  since  must  is  must, 

I  should  create  of  it  a  comedy, 

And  with  a  smiling  air  take  leave,  as  if  ^ 

I  were  but  going  to  the  market-town. 

And  faith,  the  world  is  small,  and  every  port 

Is  home,  while  you  are  there  :  needs  not  that  you 

Must  ever  go  where  other  folk  are  not ; 

Meat,  drink,  and  shelter  meet  one  everywhere  ; 

And  I  have  never  heard  of  any  place 

Where  there  was  likelihood  of  tumbling  off." 


262  CYRILLA. 

Perhaps  a  volume  of  philosophy 
He  might  have  uttered  ;  but  upon  the  face 
Of  him  who  scarcely  listened,  he  perceived 
A  blank  regard,  at  which  he  said,  "  Well,  well, 
Come  down  to-morrow  early,"  then  wheeled  round, 
And  plunged  into  a  letter. 

But  Seborne 

Went  sadly  in  the  evening  to  the  house 
Where  late  a  brighter  light  had  shone  than  all 
The  world  beside  could  furnish.     If  the  month 
Had  quickly  flown,  yet  every  night  had  been 
Itself,  and  many  of  the  evenings  he 
Had  thickly  planted  with  the  memories 
Of  fair  Cyrilla.     She  had  fallen  to  him 
Oftener  than  he  had  dared  to  hope,  for  George 
Thought  more  than  he  should  dare  to  think,  and 

gave 

Himself  to  Lucy  most ;  and  she,  in  play 
And  earnest  both,  exacted  countless  dues. 
Now  they  must  part ;  but  more  than  parting  pained 
His  heart  this  thought,  that  parting  should  be  pain. 
It  seemed  a  wrong  to  her,  who  knew  it  not, 


CYRILLA. 


263 


That  even  in  his  most  unuttered  soul, 

He  should  in  such  a  way  associate 

Herself  with  him,  as  make  it  pain  to  part. 

Then  all  the  weary  changes  of  true  love 

In  heart  ingenuous,  rang  within  his  breast — 

Unworthy  he  of  this  bright  soul's  regard  ; 

Yet  worthy,  if  she  counted  love  of  worth. 

But  did  he  truly  love  ?     And  if  he  loved 

Most  truly,  had  he  right  to  love  ?     Or  if 

To  love  were  right,   were  there  from  thence  the 

right 

To  give  expression,  even  to  that  degree 
Whence  its  expression  might  be  faintly  seen, 
If  Love's  clear  watchman  looked  from  out  her  eyes, 
But  else  quite  unperceived?     Such  endless  chimes 
Pealed  from  the  belfry  where  his  passion  rocked, 
And  thrilled  his  fearful  heart. 


If  happiness 

Be  found  in  love  requited,  yet  the  road 
Is  often  thornier  than  the  dim  by-paths 
That  lead  through  crooked  Folly.     He  who  walks 
In  cynic  armor  clad,  may  laugh  at  thorns, 


264  CYRILLA. 

And  brush  aside  the  pains  that  strike  the  heart 
Of  him  who,  guileless,  only  looks  to  love 
For  his  defense. 

The  happy  hours  Seborne 
Had  known  of  late,  had  each  an  underweight 
Of  sadness  carried ;  and  now,  flying  off, 
They  left  the  burden,  harder  to  be  borne, 
From  the  dark  contrast. 

Solace  there  was  none 
In  love,  that  gave  instead  a  deeper  pang. 
Had  not  he  loved,  he  had  been  happy  now, 
Or  not,  at  least,  unhappy.     Fair  content 
He  could  have  been  contented  with ;  but  now 
Her  form  had  fled,  and  love,  of  hope  bereft, 
Remained,  and  only  to  affright  and  wound. 

But  all  this  passed,  when  now  once  more  he  stood 
Within  her  presence,  and  her  frank,  sweet  voice 
Composed  his  soul.     She  at  her  music  sat, 
And  sang  a  song  of  winter  :  how  the  lake 
Lay,  a  long  sheet  of  ice ;  the  snowy  hills 
Leaned  back  on  either  side,  and  echoed  down 


CYRILLA. 


265 


The  ring  of  skaters  ;  till  the  northern  stars 
In  bright  auroras  faded.     Then  she  ceased, 
And  said:  "But  you  are  going  to  the  land 
Where  winter  never  comes,  and  you  will  miss 
The  frosty  skies,  and  miss  the  ringing  ice 
Of  cold  Connecticut." 

"  Too  soon  I  go," 

Seborne  replied.     "  To-night  I  bid  good-by ; 
The  vessel  sails  to-morrow."     Then  her  cheek 
Paled,  as  if  something  struck  her  at  the  heart, 
But  quick  regained  its  color  ;  and  she  said  : 
"  But  you  must  wait  for  George  and  Lucy  ;  they 
Will  not  forgive  me  if  you  go,  good-by 
Not  said  to  them ;  and  they  will  soon  be  here." 


And  then  she  sang  a  song  of  Eastern  life, 

As  far  toward  China  as  romance  has  flowed, 

A  lay   of  Cashmere ;    sweet   the   words,  though 

wrought 

Into  a  language  not  their  own  ;  and  sweet 
The  melody,  which  once  a  scholar  heard, 
And  brought  it  home  ;  a  simple  pastoral  tune, 
12 


266  CYRILLA. 

Breathing  of  mountain  air.     A  rustic  maid 
Mourned  for  her  lover,  to  the  Ganges  gone, 
And  lost  in  myriad  masses  round  the  king  ; 
But  either  he  will  die,  she  said,  or  else 
Return  a  prince  ;  for  he  will  ne'er  content 
Himself  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  throng. 

This  turned  the  talk  awhile.    Cyrilla  most 

The  conversation  held ;  nor  was  Seborne 

Unapt  to  silence,  for  he  looked  at  all 

That  he  must  leave,  and  sorrow  filled  his  heart  ; 

Nor  ever  had  she  looked  so  beautiful, 

Nor  ever  seemed  so  near — and  far  away. 

And  while  he  vaguely  talked,  he  wondered  if 
She  felt  in  least  degree  the  love  that  now 
Consumed  his  soul,  and  yet  so  cheerful  she. 
And  yet  he  answered,  Not  a  word  of  love 
Have  I  declared,  or  lived  in  any  act, 
Though  full  of  love.     But  if  she  love  the  least, 
How  might  she  question  if  I  loved  at  all ; 
Who  not  disclose  the  passion  of  my  heart, 
As  most  becomes  a  man  :  but  this  I  fear 


CTRILLA.  267 

More  than  all  other  ending,  to  disturb 

The  sphere  wherein  she  sits.     If  I  invade 

Its  crystal  sanctity,  what  jarring  wreck 

Might  I  not  make?  And  this  must  make  me  dumb, 

Till  strength  no  longer  can  restrain.     But  this 

Can  never  be,  for  soon  I  go,  and  leave 

The  hour  and  place  of  possible  dismay 

Forever  far  behind.     Then  with  a  start, 

That  brought  a  wondering  blush  to  the  fair  cheek 

Of  her  who  looked,  he  woke  from  out  his  dream, 

And  gayly  talked,  till  George  and  Lucy  came, 

And  brought  the  hour  of  parting :  then  farewell 

Came  :  dreary,  commonplace,  and  profitless  end 

To  friendship  bright,  that  merited  other  close. 

But  in  the  night,  the  thought  of  what  "  farewell " 
Might  in  its  long  uncertainty  contain, 
Oppressed  him  wakeful ;  and  in  dreams  it  stalked 
The  front  of  every  vision.     With  the  sun 
He  rose,  and  sought  the  ship.     The  laggard  crew 
Unwilling  thronged ;  but  as  the  morning  warmed, 
Came  Beckford,  with  the  many  short  last  words 
Of  business  and  of  friendship.     Then  the  ship 


268  CYRILLA. 

Heaved  up  her  mighty  anchor  from  the  stream, 
And  sailed  to  sea.     The  winter  sun  went  down, 
Behind  the  heights  of  cloudy  Neversink, 
And  when  it  rose,  no  more  the  Western  world 
He  saw. 

Cyrilla,  as  the  days  went  by, 
The  more  when  George  and  Lucy  took  away 
Themselves,  and  that  warm  air  of  confidence 
In  which  they  lived,  a  strange  and  unknown  want 
Perceived,  which  not  diminished  with  the  days, 
But  rather  grew.     Oft  at  the  window  she 
Would  stand,  while  spring's  slow  twilight  faded  out, 
As  if  expectant  of  a  step,  a  form, 
That  never  came.     Nor  did  she  dare  to  ask 
Herself  what  form  or  step.     Her  eyes  lacked  not 
Their  usual  brightness  ;  rosy  was  her  cheek 
As  when  she  sailed  on  blue  Connecticut ; 
And  in  her  lived  and  spoke  the  rich  warm  blood 
Strongly  and  beautifully  :  but  her  heart 
Had  something  gained  and  lost.     No  more  in  rest 
Of  bountiful  self-content  it  lived.     From  out 
Herself,  in  mode  unwonted,  she  had  gone, 


CYRILLA. 


269 


Nor  knew  how  much,  though  hoped  it  was  but 

slight, 

As  easier  to  return ;  but  as  she  tried, 
She  found  the  effort  vain  ;  nor  could  regain 
Herself,  as  once  she  was.     Nor  was  it  pain 
To  wander,  but  the  verge  of  joy,  that  yet 
Might  hint  of  anguish,  if  she  roved  too  far. 

O'er  the  round  world  the  vessel  sped,  and  sank 
The  northern  skies  behind :  then  first  Seborne 
The  diamond-dusted  Austral  pole  beheld, 
And  fair  Canopus  and  the  blazing  Cross, 
Which  more  than  tropic  breezes,  or  the  swell 
Of  boundless  seas,  recalled  his  long  exile, 
And  actual  breadth  of  journey.    But  through  all 
Despondency  of  distance,  lonesomeness, 
Heart-sinkings,  fear,  and  dread  of  stranger  land, 
There  cheered  him  one  bright  thought,  that  he 

should  win 

A  manly  name  and  fortune,  then  with  these 
The  brightest  might  be  grasped ;  nor  dreamed  how 

much 
Of  pride  lay  hid  within  his  love. 


270  CYEILLA, 

, 

Through  calm 

And  storm  of  the  Atlantic,  summer  swell 
Of  Indian  sea,  and  treacherous  western  wind 
From  Asia,  fretting  o'er  the  Chinese  main, 
He  came  to  far  Canton,  his  journey's  end. 
There,  letters  found  from  Beckford,  proving  all 
The  grasp  of  merchant's  mind.     Each  slight  detail 
Was  noted  there,  and  caution,  terse  and  sharp, 
Against  a  thousand  dangers.     "If  you  weigh 
These  hints  aright,"  said  Beckford,  "  you  will  save 
Five  years  of  life — for  merchant  life  is  judged 
By  its  results  in  wealth  and  power  ;  and  I, 
From  fifteen  years  abroad,  drop  five  as  lost. 
Had  I  possessed  adviser,  who  had  said, 
Thus  far,  no  farther,  when  the  judgment  reeled, 
By  young  ambition  tempted,  I  had  saved 
Those  years,  and  much  of  suffering,  when  the  soul, 
Stung  through  with  sense  of  injury  from  trust 
Abused,  from  generous  impulse  turned  to  feed 
Dishonest  cravings,  back  upon  itself 
In  dark  misanthropy  recoils.     What  charms 
Another's  money  has,  not  yet  you  know ; 
But  they  about  you  know,  upon  whose  brows 


CYRILLA.  271 

I 

The  lines  of  Care  or  Covetousness  are  writ : 

Beware  of  haggard  faces,  and  of  eyes 

In  which  cold  Speculation  sits  ;  of  tongues 

Too  sudden  friendly  :  he  is  best  your  friend 

Whom  time  draws  slowly :  and  beware  of  plans 

Too  prosperous-promising.     Nature's  laws  are  fixed 

Of  seed-time,  labor,  harvest :  he  who  thinks 

To  break  her  laws,  may  break  the  laws  of  trade, 

And  if  you  take  his  pledges  for  the  one, 

Why — take  them  for  the  other."     Then  went  back 

To  crisp  details  of  trade,  and  made  a  close. 

But  other  letters  came,  from  time  to  time ; 

Warm    throbs    from   parents'  hearts,  and  kindly 

words 

From  George  and  Lucy.     When  the  year  was  old, 
They  wrote  as  one  :  from  time  to  time  a  line 
Dropped,  of  Cyrilla ;  often  as  his  eye 
Eoved  down  the  newly-opened  sheet,  and  caught 
Her  name,  he  felt  a  numbing  shock  of  fear 
Of  news  which  still  delayed.     Cyrilla  fair, 
Cyrilla  rich,  and  by  the  Graces  loved — 
It  fevered  him  that  year  was  linked  to  year, 


272  CYRILLA. 

And  still  a  hope  for  him.     His  fancy  leaped 
The  barriers  of  the  huge  round  world ;  he  saw 
Each  day  the  maid.     To-day,  she  seemed  to  smile, 
Alone  and  musing  ;  but  to-morrow,  she 
Was  sad  amid  the  gay ;  another  day, 
And  she  led  all  in  mirthfulness,  in  all 
A  maiden  heart,  and  void  of  all  regards, 
But  such  as  fit  the  maid  who  smiles  on  all 
Alike,  and  passion-free. 

The  fifth  long  year 

Had  nearly  passed,  and  guided  by  the  clear 
And  watchful  mind  of  Beckford,  who  with  care 
And  diligence  close  surveyed  his  path,  and  taught 
Just  when  to  profit  by  the  seeming  risk, 
And  when  to  shut  his  eyes  to  seeming  gain, 
He  found  one  day  that  he  could  say,  "  Enough, 
At  least  for  now."     The  limit  he  had  placed 
Was  overpast — now,  not  to  lose,  was  all 
He  might  desire — and  though  the  natural  goal 
Of  five  years'  journey,  roused  a  glad  surprise 
Within  his  heart.     He  gave  a  month  to  ease, 
Borne  by  swift  sails  to  where  the  last  Japan 


CYRILLA.  273 

Shrinks  from  the  frozen  sea.     When  now  again 
The  shores  of  China  drew  together  at 
The  river's  yellow  mouth,  and  in  the  night 
The  low  broad  light  of  far  Canton  appeared, 
He  mused,  "  'Tis  for  the  last,  if  this  be  true." 
And  by  the  cabin-lamp  the  last  time  proved 
The  undeceiving  balance,  where  his  wealth 
Was  curtly  written. 

In  a  lesser  bark 

Than  that  which  bore  him  out,  he  sailed  for  home  ; 
Small,  sharp,  a  clipper,  and  for  swiftness  famed ; 
As  he  had  written :  "  Scarcely  will  the  news, 
By  steamer,  reach  you  of  my  voyage  hence, 
Before  the  Glance  shall  anchor  in  the  bay." 
And  now   he  passed  Good    Hope,  and    now   the 

Trades, 

And  now  Azores ;   and  now  thy  stormy  crests, 
Atlantic,  cold  and  dreary,  lay  between 
The  homeward   ship    and    shore.      With    careful 

watch, 

The  master  steered  the  bark,  already  passed 
Within  Newfoundland  mists.     The  luminous 
12* 


274  CYRILLA. 

Gray     icebergs,    southward    floating,    neighbored 

them, 

As  in  the  fogs  they  swung.     Three  days  and  nights, 
In  which  the  sky  seemed  melting  in  the  wave, 
They  drifted  idly ;  at  the  last,  a  breeze 
Sprang  up,  and  bare  them  on. 

But  in  the  night 

They  felt  a  sudden  shock,  and  instantly 
A  riving  crash,  that  thrilled  through  all  the  bark ; 
And  in  the  dark  up-rushing,  they  discerned 
A  mighty  bulk  amidships :  then  a  cry 
Came  from  above,  mingled  and  dissonant  voice 
Of  sailors  :  "  Are  you  sinking? — here  are  ropes — 
Save   while   we    may ! — how   came    your   vessel 

there —   • 

And  who  are  you  that  cross  a  steamer's  track, 
Thus  tempting  Death,  as  if  the  deadly  sea 
Had  not  enough  of  peril?"     Then  cried  out 
The  master:  "  Do  not  leave  us,  for  the  sea 
Pours  in  apace — all  shall  be  roused  at  once — 
Have  all  in  readiness,  hang  out  all  your  lights  !" 
Then  sped  below,  to  search  that  none  remained, 


CYRILLA.  275 

While  at  the  ropes  the  willing  sailors  drew, 
And  all  were  saved.     But  when  they  all  were  safe, 
The  Glance  fell  off,  and  slowly  sinking,  drove 
Night-deep  in  fog,  and  straight  was  lost  to  view. 

But  when  the  chill  late  morning  lit  the  mist 
With  wan  and  yellow  glare,  there  came  up  one 
From  out  the  hold,  who  cried :  "  A  leak — a  leak 
Hard  by  the  bows  !     I  heard  the  water  plunge 
Like  cataract !"     At  the  word  they  all  grew  pale, 
Quick  crowding  to  the  hold  to  know  the  worst ; 
But  stopped  as  struck,  when  trembling,  with  white 

face, 

A  fireman  struggled  up,  and  gasped :    "A  leak, 
That  soon  wrill  drown  the  fires !"     Then  arose 
The  cry  of  shipwreck,  than  the  battle-cry 
More  fearful — worse  than  cry  of  sack  and  siege, 
When   through  the   breach  the    drunken  victors 

urge, 
And  women  die  of  fear  ! 

With  lips  compressed, 
The  master  strove  to  keep  the  swarming  crew 


276  CYRILLA, 

From  off  the  boats  ;  but  mutiny  apace 
Put  on  the  cloak  of  irrepressible  fear  ; 
Two  boats  they  cut  away,  and  down  the  side 
Clambering  pell-mell,  thronged  in,  and  one  bore  off 
Into  the  misty  morning.     One  was  swamped 
In  sight,  and  no  compassion  drewr,  but  fierce 
And  savage  curses  from  the  crowd  that  swayed 
Upon  the  steamer's  deck.     Some  headlong  leaped 
To  gain  it,  but  the  icy  water  chilled ; 
And  sullen  ripples  marked  the  place  of  death. 
Three  boats  remained ;  at  each,  with  vigilant  guard, 
Stood  two  brave  men  with  arms,  from  whom  the 

crowd 

Recoiled,  dismayed.     To  these  the  women  came, 
Escorted  by  strong  shoulders,  'mid  the  crowd, 
That  selfish  urged.     When  now  the  last  was  full, 
The  others  lowered,  a  quick  and  passionate  rush 
Surged  toward  it;  but  Seborne  beat  back  the  crowd 
With  pistol-butt,  and  threat  of  death,  until, 
When  they  perceived  the  boat  had  struck  the  wave, 
A  madness  seized  them,  and  a  cutlass  gleamed, 
And  clove  his  cap,  and  stunned  him,  and  they  seized 
And  threw  him,  and  he  fell  before  the  boat 


CYRILLA.  277 

That  swiftly  rowed  for  life.     Scarce  did  it  stop 
To  take  him  in  ;  but  one  exclaimed :  "  'Tis  he, 
Who  saved  us  all,  and  it  were  deepest  shame 
That  he  should  perish  !"     Then  they  drew  him  in, 
And  laid  his  head  upon  a  woman's  lap, 
To  bring  him  back  to  life ;  and  as  he  oped 
His  eyes,  he  knew  Cyrilla ! 

Other  chance 

Of  meeting  had  amazed  them,  but  the  wreck 
Made  all  chance  possible ;  amid  the  dread 
Unknown  of  waters,  blank  dismayed  surprise 
Could  be  surprised  no  more.     A  moment's  gaze 
To  prove  her  eyes,  and  then  she  said :  "  And  you — 
Who  kept  the  sailors  from  the  boat !     The  wound — 
Oh  !  is  it  deadly  ?     Tell  me,  did  you  see 
In  either  boat,  my  father  ?     In  the  wild 
And  final  struggle  for  our  lives,  I  swooned, 
And  nothing  knew  until  I  found  me  here, 
Already  loosened  from  the  ship.     Not  he 
It  was  who  struggling  in  the  waves,  an  oar 
Clutched,  ghostly  pale,  and  frantically  tried 
To  draw  himself  within  ;  oh  !  no,  for  him 


278  CYRILLA. 

Another  seized,  just  drowning,  and  they  both  - 

Forever  sank  with  such  a  cry,  that  I 

Had  gladly  died,  had  I  not  heard  it.     Sure, 

My  father  must  be  somewhere  safe.     The  ship 

Will  float — oh  !  will  it  not  ? — or,  there  are  spars 

How  many  have  been  saved  on  spars  from  wrecks, 

As  I  have  read,  or  floated  long  on  keels 

Of  vessels  overturned,  and  drifted  down 

To  warmer  seas,  till  found."    And  while  she  spoke, 

On  the  still  water  came  to  them  a  wave 

Of  mighty  curve,  and  followed  by  a  host 

Of  lesser  waves  ;  and  these  went  on,  and  all 

Was  still ;  and  then  the  pallid  steersman  said  : 

"  May  God  have  mercy — the  good  ship  has  sunk!" 

Then  said  Cyrilla  :  "  Is  it  so  ?"     Seborne 

Replied:  "An  iceberg  may  have  toppled,  else 

The  word  is  true  ;  but  I  have  hope  in  this, 

That  if  your  father  be  not  in  a  boat, 

He  may  have  caught  a  fragment  of  the  wreck — 

And  many  vessels  sail  upon  this  track." 

But  then  Cyrilla  turned  away,  and  hid 

Her  face  within  her  veil,  and  silent  mourned  ; 

And  all  that  day,  and  all  the  night,  she  mourned. 


CYRILLA.  279 

But  when  the  dreary  dark  had  passed,  the  mist 
Kose  up,  and  showed  the  sea.     The  kindly  sun 
Beamed  warm  upon  them,  and  their  stiffened  limbs 
Relaxed.    The  chiefest  man  among  them  said  : 
"Friends,  let  us  hope,  for  we  have  bread  for  days, 
And  water ;  and  the  sea  and  sky  seem  kind  ; 
And  if  they  be,  to  run  through  six  full  days, 
Will  land  us  :  therefore  let  us  all  take  heart." 

Then  each  a  measure  of  bread  and  water  took, 
Just  sixteen  souls  in  all ;  and  those  at  oars 
Changed  hourly.     Respite  scant  to  those  who  urge 
Their  strength  against  Atlantic !     Ere  the  noon, 
All  hearts  were  knit  together,  eye  to  eye 
Beamed  friendly,  and  the  cheerful  word  went  round 
Of  how  much  sea  was  passed,  and  wise  was  he 
Who  well  had  stored  the  boat ;  and  how  the  bergs 
Were  fully  passed ;  and  would  the  fogs  arise 
Again  before  they  landed  ?     It  was  good 
The  compass  had  not  broken,  in  the  crowd ; 
And,  here  are  sea-weeds,  let  each  take  a  leaf — 
Hereafter  they  shall  mind  us  of  our  cruise. 

And  when  Seborne  had  told  Cyrilla  all 


280  CYEILLA. 

His  years  abroad,  and  how  his  life  had  sped, 
He  said  :  "  And  you  upon  the  sea  !"     And  she  : 
"  A  month's  short  flight  we  took,  but  meant  again 
To  visit  more  at  large  the  Eastern  world. 
My  father  just  had  laid  his  cares  aside 
In  rounding  up  this  trip.     He  often  said 
That  this  would  end  his  cares,  and  death's  sad  voice 
Confirmed  it.     Has  the  air  grown  warm  ?     I  feel 
Oppressed,  and  yet  my  neighbor  says  'tis  cold." 

And  then  Seborne  perceived  that  fever  burned 
Upon  her  cheek,  and  said  to  her :  "  The  day 
Is  weary  feverish,  after  mortal  pain, 
Unless  one  sleep."     But  she  replied  :  "I  keep 
Such  peace  for  night — oh  !  to  anticipate 
The  blessing  now,  and  pass  the  dreadful  dark 
Awake,  amid  the  blackness  of  the  sky, 
And  hearing  nothing  but  the  rush  of  waves, 
And  painful  oars,  slow  moving — then  I  fear 
The  memory  of  the  drowning  cry  would  add 
To  all,  till  past  endurance." 

But  Seborne 

Saw  how  the  fever  mounted  ;  as  the  night 
Drew  down,  he  said  to  one  who  near  her  sat : 


CYRILLA.  281 

"  Be  watchful  of  Miss  Vernon,  for  there  grows 
A  fever  on  her — shield  her  from  the  damps  : 
And  here  is  water  that  I  saved  for  her." 
And  she  replied  :  "  And  I  have  seen  the  same, 
And  I  will  hold  her  in  my  arms  to-night." 

And  when  the  second  morning  came,  she  lay 
In  fever,  knowing  nothing  of  her  life, 
Nor  where  she  was.     Seborne  grew  sick  at  heart, 
And  all  felt  fear ;  for  here  in  other  shape 
Had  Death  attacked  them  ;  remedy  was  none, 
Beyond  the  sorely  wounded  powers  of  life. 
And  all  day  long  they  pulled  a  weary  oar 
From  out  the  blank  horizon,  toward  the  blank 
Of  endless  space  beyond,  that  showed  no  hope. 

But  when  the  third  day  came,  the  darkened  sky 
Made  threat  of  storm  ;  and  soon  the  troubled  swell 
Broke  into  waves  before  the  eastern  gale. 
Heavily  the  boat  was  laden,  and  the  seams 
Gaped,  while  she  fell  from  wave  to  wave  ;  and  one 
Incessant  baled,  and  kept  the  water  down, 
That  else  had  swamped  them.     Chill  and  blinding 
rain 


282  CYRILLA. 

Beat  fiercely  on  them,  and  they  feared  the  night. 
But  God  was  merciful,  and  though  the  night 
Lacked  nothing  of  the  dangers  of  the  day, 
And  blackness  added,  yet  the  morning  found 
The  boat  still  driving  shoreward  through  the  storm. 

But  one  among  the  women,  to  Seborne 
Crept  in  the  dusk  of  dawn,  and  said  to  him  : 
"  The  fever  rages  wildly  ;  if  I  know 
Of  fever  aught,  who  mourn  two  sisters  fair, 
In  one  short  week  by  this  dread  enemy  slain, 
The  maid  must  die,  unless  the  fever  change 
To-day.     And  are  you  not  of  nearer  kin, 
Than  thus  to  leave  the  charge  so  much  to  us  ? 
For  much  she  talks  of  certain  places,  times, 
Where  you  appear.    Oh !  take  her  hand  in  yours, 
And  soothe  her — with  her  fancies  chime  :  perhaps 
You  may  with  happy  circumstance  of  words 
Charm  her  to  quiet."     And  Seborne  came  near, 
And  sat  him  down  amid  the  hurtling  storm, 
Beside  her,  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  gazed 
Beneath  the  roof  of  cloaks  upon  her  face, 
Which  thus  was  scantly  sheltered.     Fever  there 
Had  traced  its  deathly  mark  ;  and  though  his  soul 


CYRILLA.  283 

Shook  with  unknown  dismay,  he  calmed  his  voice, 

And  favored  every  fancy  she  recalled 

Of  former  time  in  her  delirium.     She 

Came  to  his  name,  and  bending  low,  as  if 

To  guard  her  maiden  soul  with  manly  shield, 

He  heard  the  history  of  her  heart ;  amazed 

To  find  himself  therein,  and  written  there 

In  cipher  of  which  Love  alone  the  key 

Possessed.     And  most  he  wondered  that  she  knew 

Himself  as  others  knew  him  not.     For  he 

To  them  lived  only  by  his  acts  :  she  knew 

His  thoughts,  his  close-concealed  resolves,  and  all 

That  made  his  guarded  inner  self,  by  which 

He  lived  his  separate,  individual  life, 

As  differing  from  another.     All  the  day 

And  all  the  night  her  fevered  fancy  roved ; 

But  with  the  fifth  sad  morning  she  awoke, 

And  knew  herself,  and  knew  full  well  that  she 

Was  called  by  Death. 

Then  to  Seborne  she  said  : 

"  A  long  and  weary  dream  I  just  have  dreamed, 
But  brighter  at  the  close.  You  have  been  near 
While  I  have  slept ;  and  tell  me  now,  dear  friend, 


284:  CYEILLA. 

In  all  sincereness,  have  I  aught  complained, 
Or  said  a  word  to  wound  these  kindly  folk, 
Who,  'mid  the  storm  and  peril  of  the  sea, 
Have  given  me  more  than  is  my  rightful  share 
Of  shelter  and  of  room  ?" 

And  he  replied : 

"  Not  so,  but  rather  thanks :  but  most  your  life 
In  former  times  you  traversed ;  and  since  I 
Through  one  bright  month  walked  by  your  path 

of  life, 

I  met  such  mention,  which  for  me  to  hear 
Was  most  profound  of  melancholy  joy, 
Which  I  am  sure  that  no  one  else  has  heard. 
And  now  forgive,  that  I  have  said  thus  much  ; 
Had  I  said  less,  I  had  not  truly  spoke, 
As  you  required,  in  all  sincerity." 

"Dear  friend,"  she  said,  "I  thank  you  that  in  this, 
You  speak  as  honoring  me ;  a  lesser  soul 
Had  covered  this.     I  feel  that  I  must  die, 
But  life  is  long  for  you.     Grieve  not  too  much 
That  we  have  lost  what  might  have  been.     Per 
haps, 


CtRILLA.  285 

Though  faintly  dare  I  hope,  my  father  lives, 
And  you  will  meet :  such  friendship  will  be  yours, 
As  flows  from  sad  events  together  borne, 
The  life-long  moments  of  the  reeling  wreck, 
And  sinking  crowds — and  death !     Such  sights,  as, 

shared, 

Make  kin  of  all.  Your  hand — I  faint,"  she  said, 
And  sinking,  as  he  caught  her,  seemed  to  sleep  ; 
But  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  it  was  death. 

And  when  the  evening  sun  was  low,  they  saw, 
Through  mist  and  rain,  the  gloomy  land  ahead, 
Waste,  scarred  by  storm.  Nor  longer  had  the 

boat 

Withstood  the  shock  of  sea.     Within  a  cove 
They   beached,  and   drew   the   keel   high  up  on 

shore, 

And  slept  a  weary  sleep,  till  morning  came, 
While  one  sad  watcher  by  Cyrilla  sat. 

Then,  ere  they  set  their  faces  to  the  south, 
Through  leagues  of  wilderness,  they  laid  her  form 


286  CYEILLA. 

To  rest  beneath  the  gray  and  lichened  rocks, 
Where  with  unceasing  sound  Atlantic  pours 
Its  mighty  tides. 

Such  funeral  she  had. 


M175553 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


